Security
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: With a murder on board Enterprise, Malcolm finds himself in over his head.
1. Evidence

Disclaimer: I do not own many of these characters, and this is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Yes, it's something new… but that's just me. Don't worry, I _will_ continue to update everything that hasn't been completed yet… but sometimes you just can't ignore an idea, either. Besides, I've been wanting to work with Malcolm for a while now. And be nice to him while I was at it.

Thank you, to my beta readers: **gaianarchy **and **silvershadowfire**. I truly couldn't do this well without them, they catch my 3:00am errors, and my little quirks of confusion, and of course all those little punctuation things that no one ever taught me about. (Not to mention the times that I think faster than I type, and miss a word or two that makes the sentence make sense. Because even in re-reads, I don't always catch them. I owe a lot to you, guys. Thanks again).

**SECURITY **

**Chapter 1: Evidence**

A few seconds was all it took to turn life into death. It took longer to plan, longer to hide, than the execution itself. And then it was over – at least for the moment.

Malcolm stared down at the pool of blood, black and sticky on a once pristine deck. Small bits of hair and bone lay mixed in – an ugly reminder that only minutes ago someone's shattered head had lain in the middle. _I want to throw up_. Commander Tucker _had_ thrown up, when he'd run in to see why Crewman Styles had started screaming – fortunately he'd had the presence of mind to do it in a far corner. Now he sat against the wall, pale and shaking.

_We should let him go to the doctor_. But Ensign Holley was right… they needed to get as much information from him as they could now, before his mind could sanitize and alter the details into something he could comprehend. He was their only conscious witness – Crewman Styles had collapsed shortly after the commander arrived.

"Why did you assign a guard to Styles?" Malcolm spoke quietly, barely moving his lips. This wasn't what he had been trained for… but it fell to him by default.

"First witness, first suspect." Torey Holley didn't even look up at him as she calmly tweezed a tiny clump of hair out of the blood. "Cardinal Rule. And if she's not guilty, there's a strong possibility that whomever is may panic and think that she saw something."

"Guilty?" Malcolm turned away, unable to look at the mess anymore. "What makes you think this isn't an accident?" That someone – here – could commit murder seemed unthinkable.

"I don't. At this moment I don't think it's anything. A good look at the evidence will tell us more." Torey dipped a swab in the blood, then sealed it in a container.

"Oh." He hadn't wanted her when she'd been assigned… it was an _armoury_, and he failed to see why they were giving him someone trained in _police_ work. Even her time with HRT failed to impress him – she'd been a negotiator… didn't she belong in communications? But now… _I'm glad at least _one_ of us knows what they're doing_.

Finished with the blood, Torey stood up – she was taller than him… the same height as Commander Tucker – and crossed over to the corner where Commander Tucker's breakfast now rested. Crouching, she scooped up a sample of the vomit and labelled the container in the same neat, cryptic handwriting that marked all the others she'd collected.

"Now let's go talk to Commander Tucker. Then I need to get up on that catwalk." She'd taken charge the moment she saw the body, despite the fact that he was the ranking security officer. She hadn't been subtle either, ordering him away from the body before tightening her loose dark ponytail and tucking the end into the collar of her uniform. He'd been a little startled when she pulled a light filter mask and gloves from the small kit she'd brought with her – and muttered something about him contaminating evidence.

He'd been relieved, rather than insulted. While it wasn't the first dead body he'd ever been close to – he _was_ an armoury officer for God's sake – it was the first he'd seen that was so _viscerally_ dead. Even Major Hayes – as torn up as the man had been – hadn't been like this. _His brains were still _in_ his body._

He waved an inattentive hand beside his face. Even in this sealed environment, somehow they got flies. Torey had captured a few of those too… she called them the best timeline to the kill. _And Crewman Cutler _is_ an entomologist._ There was _so_ much here that he didn't know, wouldn't have a clue on. _If it were up to me… someone would probably get away with murder_. Not by his choice… but simply due to his stunning incompetence.

Trip looked up at them, seeking comfort in Malcolm's face. It was hard to keep thinking of him as Commander Tucker… not when it was his _friend_ who sat there on the ground, lost in this nightmare they wouldn't let him escape from. He looked like an overgrown child in a room full of monsters – wide, tear filled, terrified eyes looking for someone who could make the monsters go away.

_But I have to _be_ one of those monsters._ He couldn't be sympathetic, as much as he felt it. "Commander."

Trip – _I can't do it,_ Malcolm realised, _ he _is_ my friend – _licked a sandpaper tongue over already cracked lips. "I…I…"

_Breathe_. Malcolm willed the thought towards the horrified Southerner. Trip _wasn't_ breathing… not normally. Instead his breaths were shallow and quick – he was hyperventilating. _And I _know_ you're ashamed of that stammer_. Few people ever heard it, and fewer still noticed it when they did. But Malcolm knew Trip better than most, and knew from experience the telltale signs: the slight tilt to the head, the twitch in the jaw as the speaker concentrated on each word. _I don't need to hear it to know it's there_.

Trip's eyes closed and a few tears did fall.

"Commander." Torey's tone was gentle, but firm. "Can you tell me what happened?"

He shook his head and pulled his knees up to his chest, his breath quickening

"Commander. I _need_ you to tell me what happened." Commander Tucker might have had the rank, but Torey's words and tone left no doubt as to who was in charge here.

_You can take the officer out of the department…_ They'd clashed on numerous occasions – Torey had been used to a much more casual command style than Malcolm's. Nothing serious… she just often took more initiative than he felt was called for, and asked questions rather than simply following orders. He _had_ nearly sent her packing, when three weeks out of space-dock he discovered that she'd brought a non-issue weapon aboard. While it was an antique – a 9mm solid projectile automatic pistol – he hadn't been mollified on finding out it was still fully functional, nor upon learning that she had several boxes of ammunition for it.

_Dirty Harriet_. Commander Tucker had laughed when Malcolm told him… he wasn't laughing now.

The door opened and both Malcolm and Torey looked over, wearing twin looks of surprised irritation. _This area is supposed to be sealed_.

"Lieutenant?" Malcolm raised an eyebrow at the short blonde who stepped through the door and began skirting the wall as she made her way towards them. Her appearance was one he'd never allow in his armoury crew… but Commander Tucker had slightly different standards. Blonde only qualified as a _technical_ description… it was the only natural colour on her head. Streaks of bright red, green, blue and purple seemed to dance as the light sparkled off tiny crystals in the dye. At least today it simply hung in a short pixie cut… sometimes it could be worse.

Before Hess could answer, Torey cut in. "Lieutenant. Would you please inform your _client_," dark irritation infused the word, "that I need to ask him some procedural questions and that I would appreciate some answers."

_Right. She's here as his lawyer_. Most of the time Hess' legal degree was a running joke… she did run the biggest illegal book on the ship, after all. Close enough friends with Commander Tucker for him to fight the brass to get her as SIC for engineering, she'd naturally want to be here. She dropped a hand onto Trip's head, and Malcolm found himself – surprisingly, since it was Hess – not wanting to argue. _He needs someone on his side right now_.

"I heard Jess… Crewman Styles… she screamed. I came in and Hen… Henry was there." Trip still didn't open his eyes and he hugged his knees tighter as he spoke.

"Crewman George." It was a question, but delivered with no inflection.

"Yes… Henry George. He is… he was on Rostov's team." Trip fell into another round of retching… this time it was dry heaves.

_I understand_. It wasn't Commander Tucker's first dead body either… they'd all seen enough of them in the Expanse… and there had been that ship – first month out – with all those aliens hanging there like slabs of beef in a meat locker. But the aliens weren't someone they'd said hello to in the mess hall, and they'd been aware of danger in the Expanse. _This_ was unexpected… and all the more horrifying for the shock factor.

"But he was a member of your Engineering crew." Again the question that wasn't.

_Questions imply lack of knowledge… and the investigator wants to project the image that they know everything._ It was a technique Malcolm had never mastered. He could pull it off on rare occasion…but it seemed that to Torey it was second nature.

Commander Tucker nodded. "Yes." It came out as a whisper… Malcolm had to strain to hear it. _You poor bastard_. Trip hadn't dealt well with Crewman Taylor's death – coming as it had almost on the heels of Elizabeth Tucker's – and now he had another to contend with.

_At least then it was war… we had an enemy_. This seemed so senseless… so random.

"Did you know him well?" She couldn't ask this one as a statement – it had to be an inquiry.

"No… like I said, he was on Rostov's team… I can get you his file… and the rest of the team's as well."

"I would appreciate that, Commander." Some of the ice thawed and the iron softened. "I'll need to speak to them… and his roommates."

The door opened again and this time it was the person Malcolm realised he had missed. "Captain Archer." Normally the captain would have been present before… so where had he been?

"The two of you have things under control here?" Archer didn't enter the room – apparently he had a better grasp of the rules of evidence than Malcolm.

"Yes, sir. Ensign Holley and I were simply getting a statement from Commander Tucker…"

"Good. I'll see you in my ready room when you're done. I have Dr. Phlox conducting an autopsy on Crewman George, and I'll have him send you the results." With that, the captain turned and left.

"Yes, sir." Malcolm spoke, even as he realised Archer was gone. _He's usually more 'hands-on' than that. What's going on?_ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Torey chew at her lip, as though there was something she wanted to say, but wouldn't.

"If I have any more questions for you, Commander, I'll let you know. In the meantime, if you could get me those files…"

Commander Tucker nodded and crawled to his feet, eager to escape but not strong enough to do so quickly. Malcolm shot him a questioning look, and then flicked his eyes in the direction of the door. _Do you know what's with him?_

Trip met Malcolm's gaze and shook his head. Not 'No I don't know,' but 'No, I don't want to talk about it.' Something bad, then. Something that he didn't want Torey or even Hess to know. Then it hit him.

_That is _not_ good._ He could see it now… the pain in the captain's eyes, the careful way he moved and spoke. He'd been there once or twice himself, but would never have expected it from Archer. _Hangover._ And from the looks of things it was a bad one… meaning the captain had had more than plenty to drink the night before. The man carried a lot of guilt from their time in the Expanse… maybe it was catching up with him.

Trip and Hess left together, leaving him alone with Torey. "You said…"

"My father died of cirrhosis. I know the symptoms." So she'd seen it too, but held her tongue until there was no one but him to hear. The bluntness was typical of her style – unlike most people; she didn't hide the bad pieces of her past. Like the scar that ran from her ear down the back of her jaw. When he'd asked about it, she'd coolly told him that her father had knocked her through a plate glass window when she was fourteen – punishment for walking home with a boy.

"One hangover doesn't mean that Captain Archer is an alcoholic." He wasn't going to deny what she could clearly see. At the same time he wasn't going to see his commanding officer – and at times another friend – disparaged on the basis of a single incident.

"No," she admitted, "it doesn't. But it's not the first he's had… especially not lately." She spared another glance at the room then picked up her things and headed for the door herself. There was no direct access to the catwalk from here, and that was the next logical place for her to go.

_There is method to this._ Malcolm realised it would be best to follow along – not because he was supposed to be in command – but to _learn_. _We didn't think it could happen…but now it has, so the precedent is set._ A new worry settled in on him as well: if Captain Archer was drinking more… how long before he started making mistakes? How long before… _No. He'll be fine._ Captain Archer was a man of control… he'd never let things get out of hand.

He followed Torey around and up to the catwalk door, then waited while she dusted the smooth surface with black powder.

"Not that I expect to find anything… hell, I expect to find more than I can work with… but it's so old a technique that people forget about it, and they often slip up."

"I'm sorry…" Obviously whatever technique she was thinking of was one that he hadn't heard of either.

"Dactylography. Fingerprinting. They first started using it in the nineteenth century. By now there's so many other, more modern methods that people spend more time trying to avoid _them_ and slip up on the small stuff."

"Oh." He could see now the mess of lines that appeared on the handle where the dust clung. "But there's so many… surely dozens of people…"

"Uh, huh." She applied a piece of clear adhesive to the handle then carefully lifted it away, preserving the dust in its pattern. "Which is why I expect to find more than I can work with. _But_… if we're lucky… the ones we need to worry about most are the ones on top."

"You can figure out which ones those are?" To him it looked like just a tangle of swirls and gaps, none of them even vaguely finger shaped.

"If you know what you're looking for. The biggest problem is that most of these are just partials… which aren't always conclusive." She stowed and labelled her newest pieces, then carefully opened the door with her gloved hand. She'd changed gloves about five times since she started… and each set of those hadn't been discarded, but had been – like everything else – packaged and labelled.

_And people say _I'm_ obsessive._ He supposed it would be necessary though. If this _was_ a crime, then they would be fighting an uphill battle to prove it. _Starfleet personnel are supposed to be above things like that_. It was a stupid conceit – Starfleet was comprised of humans and humans succumbed to a myriad of different temptations… including murder.

"People say we've come so far… but we're still essentially at the same point as Cain and Abel." Torey echoed Malcolm's thoughts. "You and I have been _taught_ how to kill. We _have_ killed. Whatever you use to justify it…"

"It's still murder." He knew that was one of the guilts laying heavily on Archer, for it still ate at him too. _They hadn't been involved_. Just innocents sitting in a base on a moon – probably having breakfast or coffee, maybe involved in something a little more intimate – then dead in an instant… simply because Enterprise couldn't afford to have any witnesses. _And I pulled the trigger_. Under orders, and even under protest, but he'd done it. _We've all got the blood of Cain_.

Out on the catwalk, Torey began dusting again, this time on the guard-rail. "Surprise, surprise, surprise," she murmured.

"What?" Malcolm leaned in over her shoulder. "I don't see anything."

"Exactly." She photographed the railing then pulled another pair of gloves from her kit and handed them to him. "We'll start with an accident." As soon as he had the gloves on, she shoved him hard into the rail. Instinctively he grabbed, just in time to stop himself from going over.

"Are _you_ trying to kill _me?_" He stared at her, wide-eyed and suddenly breathless. His legs trembled underneath him as the image of Crewman George's shattered body burned itself on his retinas.

"No… but I figured an object lesson was in order." She pointed at his hand, which still clung tightly to the rail. "You fall… and you reach out for something to grab on to. Even if his hand slipped…"

"There should still be traces." Malcolm finished for her. "I see. And if he jumped?" Suicide was only slightly more tenable than murder… if only because the killer wouldn't be still walking around.

In answer, she began to climb up on the rail. He reached out to stop her, then realised that – again – she was merely proving a point. "Not only would his prints be on the rail _this_ way…" she swung one long leg over the rail and began reversing her grip before moving the other across, "they'd also be on _this_ way. Jumpers usually take some time… they stand for a second before taking the plunge. It's a big decision… and a scary one. And I don't know of _anyone_ who can stand up on a round rail like this _without_ holding on. I can almost guarantee you that a jumper would have climbed _over_ first, like I just did, and then jumped." She stared directly downward, a contemplative look on her face. "Lieutenant… what do you see?"

He leaned over the rail in an attempt to match her line of sight. "Blood. The…"

"Exactly." She stared for a moment longer, then climbed back to safety. "I knew something didn't seem right about that landing."

"What?" Basic physics had never been Malcolm's strong point. He could do energy physics with the best of them – he _was_ one of the best of them – but basic stuff like falling bodies always eluded him.

"Meet me in Cargo Bay Three in twenty minutes… and I'll show you. Oh, and bring a video-camera." She turned and left, apparently in pursuit of her new idea.

"Yes, Ensign." Oddly, he felt no rancour towards her regarding their role reversal. _My father would have had her up on charges by now_. Then again, Admiral Reed had never dealt with a situation like this – he had people to deal with it for him. _Hell, he had people to deal with _me. Nannies, tutors… then public school. _We saved the universe… and he still doesn't know I exist._ As he thought it, his mind flashed to Torey's scar. _But he never hurt me. He may be – as Trip says – a bastard… but he never hurt me._ At least not anywhere where Malcolm would have to show the scars.

Twenty minutes later he arrived in Cargo Bay Three, with the requested video-camera in hand. Torey had been busy, re-arranging cargo containers and placing a large airbag in the centre of the floor. She was strapping on a helmet as he entered and directed him to a position across from the bag.

"Remember how I said I had trouble with the drop?" As she spoke, she began climbing up a stack of containers.

"Yes." Assuming she meant him to film this, Malcolm raised the camera to his eye. She _could_ have just asked for film off the security cameras… but maybe she wanted to keep this a secret.

At the top of the stack, she paused and looked down. "There's some tape in my kit. Could you get it please?"

He complied, setting the camera on the floor and pulling some bright silver adhesive tape out of her toolbox. "Is this it?"

"Yes. Now I'm going to jump… I'll want you to film it… then I'm going to need you to mark where my body hit… and get a shot of it as well. Label each one, okay? Oh, and make sure you mark my _head_ impact as well."

"Okay." Shaking his head, he picked up the camera again. "I've got you."

"Good. Now… I'm going to jump, like it's suicide, okay?"

"Um…" Even with the airbag and the helmet, it seemed a little insane. "Are you sure?"

"Lieutenant. We can run all the math we want, and someone will still find some way it doesn't work. Math isn't my strong suit anyway. I'd rather have _visual_ proof… an actual model to work with. It's just an experiment, sir. That's why I have safety gear. I'm not _really_ intending to kill myself." She straightened up and took a deep breath.

_It's not your intent I'm concerned about._ He didn't even have time to finish the thought before she stepped away from the edge. Her body plummeted forward, arcing out slightly. Air exploded from the bag vents as she landed hard and didn't move. _Oh God._

"If you would be so kind, sir." Her muffled voice emerged from the folds of the fabric. "I've got a few more of these I'd like to do."

"Oh." He scrambled forward and used the tape to mark the impact points as requested. "I thought you might be…"

"I'm fine." She raised her head slightly, enough for him to slip his fingers underneath to press the tape into the bag. Only when he'd marked her body impact point – right around the centre as she instructed – did she crawl off the bag. "Now mark those and get a shot of them. We'll need to get a comparison of where each hit occurred so we can put it next to the crime-scene photos. But I can tell you one thing already…"

Malcolm finished writing his labels and dutifully filmed the results before looking up at her makeshift platform. "If he jumped, his head would have ended up much farther out than it did. You fell forward, whereas he landed almost directly below the catwalk."

She smiled. "Got it in one, sir."

He smiled back, ever so slightly. "Thank you." The compliment made him feel proud… a bright pupil impressing his teacher. _Now why do I want to impress you_? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Wasn't _he_ the commanding officer here? _Get a hold of yourself Malcolm._ His body had betrayed him – that smile caused his heart to beat just slightly faster than normal.

She began climbing the stack of containers again. "All right. This time, I'm going to try to do it like – like an accident, or I was pushed."

Again she landed away from the platform, her head the farthest out. Even when she repeated the experiment from different positions, she still couldn't duplicate what they'd found at the scene.

"Have you got a tripod for that thing?" She called down to him, looking at the mat and wearing a concentrated frown. "I've got an idea, but I'll need your help."

"Um… no, but I'm sure I could put something together." He stacked up some containers and propped the camera on top of them before checking to make sure that the lens could capture the entire scene. He then climbed up to join her on her perch.

"I need you to drop me over the side, sir. I could try doing it myself, but it will me more accurate if you do it for me." She lay down on her side on top of the container – her entire body limp.

"Drop you over…" He looked over the edge, then down at her. "Are you sure, Ensign?"

"No, sir, I thought I'd just ask you to do something I had no intentions of following through on. Yes, of course I'm sure."

_Why am I putting up with this?_ Commander Tucker might put up with that sort of sarcasm from Hess… but they'd known each other for years, and the commander was a little strange anyway. _Trip could make Captain _Archer_ look strict._ Sighing, Malcolm bent down and wrapped his arms around her torso, lifting upwards.

"If you could move your hand, sir."

"Sorry." He could feel a flush creeping up his neck as he pulled his hand away from her breast. "Not intended, I assure you." He hadn't even realised until she mentioned it – he'd been too busy trying not to fall.

"No problem, sir." She kept herself limp though, a dead weight in his arms.

_And that's heavy_. He realised what good shape Torey was in. She wasn't overweight… just well toned and strong… and muscle carried more weight than fat did. He dragged her over to the edge and released her.

She fell, headfirst towards the bag. _Oh, God, she's going to break her neck._ She landed and lay still and he began to scramble down the side, preparing to call for Phlox.

"Ensign! Are you all right?" He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, and failed.

"The tape, Malcolm. Do me a favour and grab the tape." Another smile graced her lips, carrying with it a hint of smugness.

He grabbed the tape, ignoring for now the use of his first name. _I'll forgive you, because you're still alive._ Hands shaking, he marked the impact points.

Sitting up, she looked to the platform, and her smile grew wider. "Will you look at that."

He followed her gaze, noting the distance between the base of the platform and the impact point of her head. "Almost perfect."

She nodded, and began removing her helmet. He could see the care in her movements – she had been hurt, if only slightly.

"Here." Reaching forward, he undid the straps for her and lifted the helmet off her head. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'll tell you in the morning." She tilted her head slightly from side to side, sighing softly with a hint of pain. "But I'd place a bet with _Hess_ that he was unconscious when he went over and that he had help."

Malcolm glanced again at the top of the platform and the tape he'd just marked. "_I_ wouldn't take you up on that bet… this definitely doesn't look like an accident anymore." Which meant that somewhere on this ship was someone willing to plan and commit murder. He looked determinedly at Torey, who looked back with the same expression. _They will not be getting away with it._


	2. Sempai Kohai

Disclaimer: I do not own Enterprise or any of its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only, I do _not_ make money off of this.

**Chapter 2: Sempai/Kohai**

A/N: Sempai/Kohai essentially means Senior/Junior. Sempai is an honorific given to the most experienced student, ie. First Student. Kohai refers to any student less experienced in the same discipline. (A master would be called Sensei). Outside of Japan, it usually only appears in martial arts disciplines… in Japan it is used in many different training situations. Essentially, the Kohai is in service to the Sempai. Also: the RCMP really are referred to as 'The Horsemen.' Please R&R. Pretty please?

"You're certain about this." Archer stared at the report, then up at his armoury officer.

"Yes, sir. We've done the calculations and run the models several times, sir. There is no question in my mind that we are dealing with a case of homicide here, sir." Malcolm stared back, not letting Archer's scepticism sway him. "We are still waiting for the autopsy report from Doctor Phlox, but I can only assume that it will back up our position." Torey had gone down to Phlox with a list of specific tests she'd wanted run on both Crewman George and her biological samples, and to deliver her flies to Crewman Cutler. _But as commanding officer, it's my job to report to the captain anyway_. If Archer had a problem with what he had to report… well then that was Archer's problem. _I've seen the data. _I_ believe it._ The only way he wasn't going to investigate would be if Archer directly ordered him not to… _and if you actually do that sir, I'm going to be forced to consider you as a suspect_.

Archer sighed and closed his eyes, and Malcolm could see the man's years etching themselves into his face. "I just find it so hard to believe that a member of my crew could commit murder."

_You mean other than you and I?_ The thought was unfair, but he had it anyway. He didn't say it aloud, though – not only would it be disrespectful, but it would only add to Archer's pain. _And I may be a killer, but I am not a cruel man_. "I know, sir. But the evidence says otherwise." After the experiment in the cargo bay he'd plugged the numbers into the computer – just to satisfy his own doubt – and they still came out the same. Crewman George had either been dead, or unconscious when he had gone over the railing… and, like Torey, Malcolm didn't believe it was without help.

"Where's Ensign Holley? I believe she's assisting you on this?"

_More like the other way around_. "She's checking in with Dr. Phlox, sir. She had some additional tests she wanted him to run, and some for Crewman Cutler as well."

"Crewman Cutler?" Archer opened his eyes in surprise. "Why…"

"Apparently insects are one of the leading pieces of forensic evidence, sir. They have very specific reproductive cycles. Ensign Holley feels that between her expertise as an entomologist and the medical knowledge she picked up from Dr. Phlox, Crewman Cutler is the most qualified choice to do the forensic work with the flies. Sir." He could feel nervousness creeping in as he waded into unfamiliar territory. _I wish she _were_ here. She would at least know what she was talking about_.

"I take it Ensign Holley is more fully versed in criminal investigation procedures than you are, Lieutenant." The ghost of a smile decorated Archer's lips; the merest hint of his former self poked through.

Malcolm dropped his gaze just slightly. "Yes, sir. She spent several years working with the Royal Canadian Police, sir." That previous experience had garnered her an instant commission upon joining Starfleet, something that rankled some of the others. But unlike most of them, she _hadn't_ joined the academy as a fresh-faced recruit of nineteen needing the rebellion kicked out of her, and the steel installed… she'd shown up with that already done, and with skills unique to her. He remembered the argument he'd had with Forrest over her assignment… one of the few times he'd ever questioned the judgement of a superior.

_"We are heading into unknown territory, sir. I need people with Starfleet weapons training and experience… there are a great many officers who have served with Starfleet longer and are better qualified…"_

_ "Your father was a Navy man, right?" Forrest waited patiently until Malcolm's voice trailed off. "It's an old Navy tradition… at least in America. We put at least one Criminal Investigation Officer on board every ship. While Starfleet doesn't have a CI office… though that's something I'm trying to change… we _do_ happen to have a qualified Criminal Investigator who – I personally believe – _is_ ready for a ship assignment. That Investigator is Ensign Holley. I have assigned her to your department because in addition to being the Chief Armoury Officer, you are considered Chief of Security. As such, criminal investigations would belong to you. Now, I hope you may never have need of her services… but should the situation arise, you may find yourself grateful that I'm such an unreasonable son-of-a-bitch."_

Malcolm had left a dent in the corridor wall when he left, receiving a couple of startled stares from members of the Admiral's staff. Now, he sent a mental apology Forrest's way. Thoughts of Forrest brought up thoughts of his father. _You would have replaced me for arguing with you_. But Forrest seemed to have a talent for dealing with the rebellious – just look at all the times he'd mollified Commander Tucker, when even Archer couldn't. He'd even had Trip in for a three-hour conversation when Enterprise had returned from the Expanse, though Trip wouldn't confess what it was about. Ever since then the engineer had kept an eye on his captain, watching for something.

"If I recall, you didn't want her." Trust Captain Archer to have been up on the gossip – the only person better connected was Commander Tucker.

"I've changed my mind on that, now, sir." Malcolm met the captain's gaze again. "I would be lost on this without her, sir. There are a great many things I would have missed."

Archer nodded and tossed the pad down onto his desk. "Well, I want you two to get this dealt with quickly. Unless we are attacked, you can consider this situation your top priority. I am going to want daily reports… more frequently if there's something I should be updated on. The idea that someone is walking around _my_ ship with a fellow crewmember's blood on their hands is not one that makes me happy."

"No, sir. Me either." Yes that was unsettling: the small village aspect to the thing. _There are only eighty-four people on this ship. Virtually everybody knows everybody_. Make that eighty-three now since there was no one to magically appear and fill Crewman George's shoes. _Not that he's really replaceable_. Oh, in the technical sense, anyone could be replaced, but in the human sense…

He took a brief comfort in the fact that – no matter how many times he'd dealt with death lately – he wasn't unmoved. He doubted Torey was either, no matter how calm she seemed. _There's a difference between unmoved and not letting it traumatise you_. The trauma came from feeling helpless – that there was nothing you could do. _But we _can_ do, and we will._

He returned to the armoury more unsettled than before his meeting with Archer. _Maybe we should be worried_. Archer had lost weight since the Expanse… it showed in the bony areas of his face and of his hands. _And he didn't have it to spare in the beginning._ Once merely trim, the man now looked gaunt. _No wonder Trip and Forrest were worried_. They knew Archer better than anyone else… anyone else alive. _He looks like his father, towards the end: beaten_. The image was even more apt, taken in conjunction with eyes bruised from lack of sleep.

"O Captain! My Captain!" Malcolm murmured. Was Torey right? Would Archer simply not show up for duty one day, 'fallen cold and dead' in his quarters or ready room? _He's been more mentor to me than my own father_.

"'… our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won.'" Torey dropped a set of pads on the desk in front of him. "Whitman. Not many know him anymore."

"What's this?" He looked up as she slid into the chair next to his and unloaded a pair of salads as well. He hadn't meant to be overheard, much less by someone who knew what the poem was about.

"Personnel files. Crewman George's crewmates' and roommates'. We'll start with the people closest to him and move on from there. It helps to have background on somebody before questioning them. We'll be working through lunch, so I brought us something to eat."

"Thank-you." He wasn't much of a salad person, but it was the thought that counted.

"Sorry." She seemed to notice his lack of enthusiasm. "I haven't been able to stomach meat since I worked a three-day-old – heat of August in Toronto. Between the smell and the maggots…"

"Salad sounds lovely." Suddenly his planned steak didn't seem so appetizing.

Torey shrugged. "Everybody has their quirks. I can handle blood, feces, saliva, vomit… I've done crispers without even blinking. But I don't do well with rot."

"Crispers?" Malcolm found himself almost afraid to ask.

"Burnt. A good house fire – or similar – and the flesh literally cooks off the bones. I've seen people make the mistake of trying to pick them up and…" she made a sucking noise and Malcolm shuddered.

"And it doesn't bother you?" He didn't want to let his mind elaborate on the image it called up. _The maggots were bad enough_.

"Sometimes, late at night I remember a few… but you learn to deal with it, or you don't do it at all. There's tricks. I know some who swear by mentholatum for the smells, but all I've found is that it opens up the nasal passages. Sometimes it helps to look at it as a case… not a person. It sounds dehumanizing and cold – I know – but sometimes it's the only way to keep your sanity. At the same time, I know a guy who treats every case personally… he even gives names to the Does. You find a trick, and you use it until it doesn't work anymore. Then you find another one… or you find a way out." For a moment, she stared off into space… a deep hurt in her eyes.

"Ensign?" Even this level of reticence was rare for Torey.

"Sorry. I quit the Horsemen and joined Starfleet after someone I knew picked a permanent way out. I needed a change." As suddenly as she had drifted off, she shifted back into efficiency mode.

"The Horsemen?" A smile twitched at Malcolm's lips despite the seriousness of Torey's tone.

"An old nickname… actually it was generally used by other forces to refer to ours. It used to be the Royal Canadian _Mounted_ Police… but they changed it in the early twenty-first century when they had far more Members who _couldn't_ ride, than who could. And given that there was little likelihood of returning to horseback patrols… someone decided the name was outmoded."

"It just sounded like you were a rider for the apocalypse." He turned his attention to one of the pads. "So what precisely, are we doing here? Just getting background?"

"Getting background… and checking background. I want to fact check every detail of these files… just to see if there's something Starfleet missed, first time around. Look, especially, for any kind of previous connection… even if one of them happened to be another's father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate."

"'And what does that make us?'" Malcolm couldn't resist the chance to get even.

"'Absolutely nothing!" She joined him on the last line. "I didn't know you were in to Mel Brooks. It seems more Commander Tucker's style, than yours."

"Don't tell anyone." Malcolm dropped his voice. "But I own every movie the man ever made."

"A subversive personality. Remind me never to let you near my Rocky and Bullwinkle tapes." She neatly divided the stack of pads in two and handed him half. "Pay attention to the details. Even the smallest thing can mean the difference between catching someone and not. And listen to your gut. Even if it _looks_ like nothing… if you have a feeling it's not right, flag it. Then we'll stick 'em together and see what we've got."

He nodded. _Yes, Ensign_. He had a feeling that lunch wouldn't be the only meal they'd be working through. At least it was familiar work, though: running background checks, albeit more thoroughly than he'd ever done before. _I was looking for security risks… not connections._ How some tenuous link in the past connected with what they were looking at now… _I haven't got a clue…_ but it was apparently quite important.

Four hours later, he rubbed his eyes, unable to look at a screen any longer. He now knew more about certain members of Commander Tucker's engineering crew than he'd ever wanted to. _I probably know things their _mothers_ aren't aware of_. More than once he'd wanted to get up and walk away… start questioning the suspects or something. _Anything_ rather than just sitting and researching background. But every time he fidgeted, Torey would look over to see if he'd found something.

"This isn't the movies, Lieutenant. We're not going to solve it in a couple of hours." She'd given him variations on that statement several times. "Patience. Rushing only leads to mistakes."

"I am not, by nature, a patient man." People only _thought_ he was the quiet, introspective type. _But I can't sit still for too long. In some ways, I need more stimulation than Commander Tucker._ Now _there_ was someone with the patience of Job when the job called for it. _I expect results_… but the commander could sit for hours making the tiniest adjustments on something to get it just perfect. _Amazing how people get us mixed up_.

"If you have to get up… I could use a cup of coffee. Large triple-triple." Torey didn't even glance in his direction.

"Excuse me?"

"Three cream, three sugar. Thanks."

He opened his mouth to argue, but then thought the better of it. _We could probably _both_ use a cup of coffee right now_. God knew he was on edge… she couldn't be in much better shape. Instead he turned and left for the mess hall, a line from another comic movie drifting in his head. _As you wish_.

"Malcolm!" The familiar voice made him turn his head. Trip loped down the hallway in a hurry to catch up. "Did you find out anything?"

_And other times he's as patient as a two-year-old_. Malcolm felt his shoulders creeping up around his ears as more tension settled into them. He knew Trip needed reassuring, but also knew he couldn't provide it.

"Nothing yet. These things take time, Trip… and I can't discuss it with you, anyway." He could see the hurt in Trip's eyes – the engineer hated to be left out of anything… it was almost pathological. "It's a security matter. I'm sorry. I have to keep it confidential."

Trip sighed. "Yeah, I guess. It's just… it's just not easy to deal with, you know? Every time I close my eyes, I see him lying there… and all that blood…"

"I know. Me too." He didn't tell the commander the bad part: _Sometimes they never go away_.

"Are you all right, Mal?"

Malcolm blinked and looked at Trip. "Am…"

"'Cause you just all of a sudden blanked out and went pale on me." Trip managed a weak smile. "I thought you armoury officers were tougher than that."

"Bad memory." Instead of elaborating he quickened his pace. _I don't ever want to talk about it_._ Not even to you_. Because there were some things in life that you held close; that weren't even for sharing with your closest friends. _Some things you don't even share with yourself_. He caught himself pressing a couple of fingers to his lips. _Now there's something _else_ I haven't thought of in a long time_. One of his rare rebel habits, picked up solely to infuriate his father. He took a deep breath and blew it out through his lips in that comforting, controlled fashion. _Like that's any good_.

"I don't _believe_ this." Ten years and now…

"What?" Trip looked around, trying to spot what Malcolm referred to.

"Nic fit." Trip looked so totally at a loss that Malcolm elaborated. "I want a cigarette."

"Cigarette… as in tobacco... as in smoking? I didn't think _anybody_ did that anymore, isn't it illegal?"

Malcolm shook his head. "It's not illegal to smoke… it's just not allowed in any sort of three dimensional Earth space. Mostly because it's not very healthy. Which is why I started in the first place. It made my father angry… but it also got his attention. Except, by the time he noticed, I was addicted." He flexed his fingers, feeling his hands beginning to shake. "It's not an easy habit to kick… not when you're as hooked as I was."

"How bad?" Trip stared at him, shock written all over his All-American features.

"Over thirty a day. I can't believe I could still _breathe_, let alone pass the Starfleet physical." This he could talk about, _this_ was safe territory.

"I can't _imagine_ doing something like that. I mean Malcolm… that's like…"

"Slow suicide?" Malcolm smirked. "Yeah… that's kind of what I had in the back of my mind." He took another deep breath, forcing memories down.

"How long ago did you quit?" At least Trip no longer seemed to be thinking about Crewman George. "Mean you _did_ quit… didn't you?" He sounded almost panicky, like Malcolm had some illicit tobacco secreted about his person.

_Mother hen. I wish_. Actually he didn't wish that… because then he'd use it. "Yes, I quit. But the cravings can return. Never as bad as they were when I was going through withdrawal… but…" He grabbed a couple of mugs and slid them into the dispenser. "Replace one addiction with another. At least this one's socially acceptable."

"Hell, Malcolm, you're half-way an engineer. It's socially _required_." Trip grabbed one of the mugs, surprised when Malcolm didn't let go.

"Sorry, Commander. I'm just running an errand. Lots of work to do." He tried to inject some irony into it, so Trip wouldn't feel abandoned.

"Yeah… right. Sorry." Trip released the mug, coffee sloshing all over Malcolm's hand.

"We'll talk later, okay?" He knew the way Trip could take things… even the slightest hint of non-interest could be seen as a personal insult. _And people say _I'm_ touchy._ "2100. I'll meet you at the rec-room." _But I know things about you that even Archer doesn't know_.

Trip nodded. "Okay."

"Darts." He'd been trying to teach Trip the fine art of the game for weeks now. _You'd think an ex-quarterback would have better aim_.

Trip made a face at him, and Malcolm felt a surge of relief. _You know I won't give up a chance to beat you at something…so you know I'm not making an empty promise._ Knowing what he knew, he'd never do that to Trip. Other people could have the platitudes, but Trip deserved the hard truths that were easier to take. _I won't betray you. I'll always play it straight_. Everybody wondered how two such different personalities got along so well… they'd never believe it was as simple as trust and truth. _We don't candy-coat things for each other._

He made it back to the armoury without spilling any more. "One large triple-triple." He set the mug down on the desk in front of her.

"Thanks." She took a sip, not lifting her gaze from the text on her screen. "Did you get your share done?"

_I've been getting your coffee_. "Not yet. Almost."

"Well, get cracking. I'm almost done here, so when you finish up, we can start with the first round of questioning."

"Um… Ensign…"

"Memories change, sir. It's bad enough we wasted time here… but I don't go in unprepared. I was hoping having you would speed things up." She used a stylus to scribble a couple of notes on a pad.

"Ensign… Lieutenant. Lieutenant… Ensign." He sat down in his chair again and tried to pick up where he left off.

"Veteran…Rookie. Rookie…Veteran. Hurry up." At least she wasn't speaking loudly enough to be heard by anyone else.

"Insubordination." She was walking the line, and he knew she knew it.

She chewed her lip and looked away, and he felt his chest tighten. _She's laughing_. It wasn't indignation he felt though… more a determination to show her up, show her exactly who was boss. He forced himself to look back at the file, to ignore her. Another thought rose, unbidden. _Don't let Commander Tucker know she's under your skin_. Trip would never let up on him if he found out. _Sub-Commander T'Pol used to drive you crazy, too, didn't she, my friend?_ Except it was different for them… T'Pol wasn't Starfleet… wasn't bound by the chains of command. _I can't get involved with a junior officer. It's inappropriate_. Which would serve as a convenient excuse to candy-coat the truth: that there was no way in _hell_ it could be mutual.

He sighed again as another of the familiar pangs hit him. _I'm stronger than that… I don't need it. It's poisonous… it's toxic. A few drops can kill. It's carcinogenic… I don't need it, I don't need it, I don't need it…_ He clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth together, forcing himself to resist.

"Are you okay, sir?" Of all the people he had to be sitting next to, why did it have to be an ex-copper?

"Fine, Ensign. Just a headache." A lie: the headache would come later. But he wouldn't – _couldn't_ take anything for it… couldn't give his body another crutch. _Because that's what you want, isn't it? An easy way out… something to make everything better_. He couldn't confess to her like he had to Trip – command depended on trust and Torey had no reason to trust an addict.

"Maybe we should stop in and see Dr. Phlox. Because most 'just headaches' don't leave you white-faced and shaking. You're the colour of butter, sir." Oh, yes, it had to be an ex-copper. Trained in human observation and human behaviour.

"I'm _fine_, Ensign. It'll go away on it's own." He took another few slow deep breaths, reminding himself that he could. _You're not hacking or wheezing._ He gulped down some coffee, grateful for its strength. _You can taste that… you can taste the flavours. Do you really want to go back to not being able to taste?_

"Sir… you're ashen. You need to see the doctor."

"I don't need to see the doctor, Ensign." Ashen would be a good term, probably. He fought to keep his voice from rising to a shout. _ Control, Malcolm, control._ "It will pass on it's own. Now can we just finish up here and get on with whatever else you have in mind?" He knew she wanted to argue, but she must also have known that if she did he _would_ have her up on charges. _This too, shall pass_. He'd get through this… he'd make it. He focussed on the file in front of him, twisting and pulling on his fingers, just to keep them occupied.

She didn't argue _verbally_, but reached over and laid the back of her hand against his forehead. "Your skin's clammy. That's not good."

_Neither is your hand on my face_. On the other hand, it kept him from thinking about cigarettes. _And there's _another_ reason to be glad you quit. You _are_ getting older… the last thing you need is a contributing factor to impotence._ Actually, the contact seemed to be calming… the simple relief of being taken care of.

"I'll be fine." He took her wrist and pulled her hand away. "Thank you for your concern, however."

"No problem." Again she smiled that hint of a smile… and the same thing happened to his heart. Combined with everything else, the sudden rush of blood hit hard.

"Sir!" Her voice sounded far away as he tried to stand up, then pitched forward and fell.

"Welcome back, Mr. Reed. Though I must admit it's usually Commander Tucker I see in here with head injuries…" Phlox leaned over him, smiling that impossibly huge smile. "Ensign Holley said you passed out… that you hadn't been feeling well…"

"I'm fine." He tried to sit up, then decided not to. "Ow." He reached up and felt his forehead, and the new rough line that ran along it.

"Apparently you hit your head on the desk… you will need to wash that uniform… it was enough of a gash to require sutures. Is there something you'd care to discuss with me?" Trust Phlox to know it was bigger than Malcolm would ever want to admit.

He started to say something, then stopped. "Cravings."

"Ah, yes. Your nicotine addiction. A rather strange habit… I must admit… especially given your numerous allergies and tendency to develop respiratory ailments…"

"Doctor," If not interrupted, Phlox had a tendency to go on forever. "I've already quit. I don't need the anti-smoking lecture. I already know it by heart. I've just been under a lot of stress these last few hours… and haven't really had an outlet for it. I will be fine."

"I agree. You will probably have somewhat of a headache… and you should keep those sutures moist and clean… but you do seem to have avoided a concussion."

"And people say Commander Tucker has the hard head." This time he did manage to sit up, slowly. "You said Ensign Holley…"

"Yes… she called me in. She informed me that she would complete your tasks and meet you outside the conference room at 1700. She also asked that I provide you with this." Phlox handed over a pad. "Crewman George's autopsy report, including the extra tests the ensign asked me to run. I must admit, I would never have thought to look for some of the things she asked for… and I did find one of them. Your surmise was correct, Crewman George was not conscious when he was deposited on the floor. He _was_ still alive… which explains the quantity of blood – his heart was still beating when he made contact – but he would have been dead shortly, regardless… given the amount of toxin present. While _actual_ cause of death does appear to be the impact… he would have been suffering from a transient increase in blood pressure followed by paroxymal atrial fibrillation and cardiac standstill. Ironically, the substance is one with which you have a certain familiarity, Lieutenant…"

_Oh, no_. "Let me guess. Nicotine. Thank-you, doctor… you've been most helpful." He slid to the floor and waited a moment for the room to stop swaying. "But I should be going… I wouldn't want to keep the ensign waiting." No, definitely no mutual feeling there… she just didn't want her senior officer bloodying up the place while she tried to work. _Face facts, Malcolm. You are not, and never will be, a ladies' man._ Wasn't that the _true_ reason why he'd spent so much time with Commander Tucker? To serve as consolation prize? _Your idea, not his_. For if anyone was desperate enough to settle for second… _well, I'm desperate enough to be happy to have you_.

She was already there, waiting for him when he arrived. "That looks nasty, sir. Do you have the report?"

He handed her the pad and she handed him a bundle of clothing. "Fresh uniform… I didn't think you'd have time to change. While it is a good idea to put people on edge, your Frankenstein look is going to be bad enough."

"Frankenstein was the doctor. I'm assuming you're implying that I look like his creation." In response to her odd look, he explained. "I spend a lot of time with Commander Tucker. Some things you just learn."

"Ah." She nodded. "Well, go get changed," she indicated the door behind her, "and we'll get started."

_Why am I taking orders from you?_ He did as she instructed anyway, telling himself that he had no desire to remain in a blood soaked uniform. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window and winced. He _did_ look a little like Frankenstein's creature… what in heaven's name had induced Phlox to use black sutures? He changed the wince into a scowl, and decided that it looked better. _It's the closest someone with _your_ stature will ever come to looking menacing._ He cursed his mother's genes, and not for the first time. No one ever took him seriously as an armoury officer – just look at all the hassle he'd had with Hayes. He'd spent years in his teens and early twenties trying to bulk up – only to finally realise that it would never happen. _No wonder people like Torey assume they can walk all over you._

"Are you coming or not?" The door hissed open and Torey poked her head in just as he was stepping into the clean uniform.

"Do you mind?" He felt the flush creeping up the back of his neck and hopped backwards to half hide behind the conference table.

"Get a grip, sir. I was a cop, I've seen worse than that." She had a wicked gleam in her eyes, though.

"Well, next time at least have the decency to knock," he grumbled. _This is _not_ the way to maintain your authority._ He glared at her until she finally withdrew.

Definitely not any attraction on her part. _'Get a grip, I've seen worse?'_ Not precisely words to stroke a man's ego. "Why is it that you always fall for the impossible, Malcolm?" He turned to the man in the window, already knowing the answer. _Because that way you never have to worry about the next step; worry about it getting complicated._ As long as any potential relationship lay in the realm of Never To Happen he was safe. There would be no need to open up and share those dark, dangerous parts of himself that no one ever got to see; there would be no need to become vulnerable.

He sighed, knowing that if he waited any longer, Torey would be coming back in and demanding to know what was taking so long. _Don't give her an excuse… don't go handing ammunition to the enemy._ If this kept up… how long before his authority lay in tatters in front of everyone? _If you ever wanted a way to piss off Father_… the Admiral would disown him if he saw this. "'Authority is never shared and never bartered, Malcolm. An officer who does not insist upon his authority, might as well resign his commission, for he is no kind of capable officer.'" He deepened his voice in a mimicry of the Admiral's. The old man would have kittens if he ever saw Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Hess – the thought brought a smile to Malcolm's face.

_Now there would be an explosion and a half. Stuart Reed meeting Charles Tucker the Third. You could power a warp engine with it._ Easy-going Trip… until you messed with someone he cared about. _I don't think he likes you much, Father, what little he knows about you. If he had all the details…_ Another, nastier thought occurred. _Now _that_ would piss you off even _more,_ wouldn't it? That I have friends… friends who don't just like me because it's 'politically expedient.'_ Reeds did not have friends… Reeds had acquaintances and contacts. Malcolm's upbringing had been designed to prevent the forming of close friendships… for friendships caused weakness and there was no room in a Reed for weakness.

_Well fuck you, Father. As hard as that is to imagine_. Sometimes he was certain he'd been adopted. There was no way the Admiral and Mrs. Reed would ever thaw that ice enough for intimate contact… not even for the short time it would take to create a child.

"Now that is a good look. See if you can maintain it." Torey nodded in approval at Malcolm's scowl as he emerged from the conference room. "First on the list is Crewman Neale… one of Crewman George's roommates. He's one of the botanists…"

"Which makes him a good suspect," Malcolm guessed. "He would have the opportunity – possibly more than anyone else – to lay hands on the poison."

"_Very_ good, sir. So Doctor Phlox told you about the nicotine."

"Yes. And since nicotine is a rather uncommon poison nowadays, but _is_ one of the more potent organic poisons…" _Why couldn't you have picked something healthier to become addicted to… like arsenic or strychnine?_ Which – come to think of it – could also be found in cigarettes. "Yes, Malcolm Reed, you are a friggin' genius."

"I wouldn't go that far, sir. Your logic _is _still fairly simplistic… we haven't even traced the origin of the nicotine yet." He didn't realise he spoke aloud, until Torey responded.

"I wasn't talking to you, Ensign. And it wasn't even about that." On the other hand… if this kept up, slow suicide might be a tenable option. _At least it will keep me from strangling you_. He had to hurry to keep up with her – she used her long legs to full advantage. But there was no way he was going to trail along behind her… like a subordinate.

They stopped outside the doors to the botany lab. "Now, _I'll_ ask the questions… you just back me up. Don't get fancy on me… there is an art to this. These are just preliminary inquiries… it's not an interrogation. In fact, it might go better if you don't say anything." She turned to hit the door release.

"Excuse me, Ensign…" He gritted his teeth, feeling his fingers begin to curl.

"Sir, you're lucky I'm letting you in at all. Questioning is a delicate procedure. I _could_ just have it all recorded and let you listen to it later." She reached for the door release again.

"Ensign." He grabbed her elbow and smiled at her… or maybe just bared his teeth. "I am your superior officer…"

"No, sir, merely a higher ranking one. With all _due_ respect, sir, you don't have the first fucking clue on how to conduct a criminal investigation. I'm lucky I have _any_ evidence to work with at all… you can't just barge in like Columbo or Jessica-fucking-Fletcher and start looking around. There are procedures to be followed… starting with no one _touches_ the body until the coroner has pronounced. I don't _care_ if you thought you were checking for a pulse… any _idiot_ could have told you that there would _be_ no pulse, because his fucking brains were all over the fucking deck. That _still_ doesn't eliminate the procedure. You wondered why I assigned a guard to Styles? What if she faked her little 'fainting spell?' You would've sent her off… and if she had anything to do with it she could have trotted off to destroy even more evidence. The escort limits that possibility." She spoke softly but clearly, leaning in close enough for him to feel her breath on his face.

"I am not _asking_ to take over, Ensign. What I am asking for is a little more respect… and yes, I do have some _due_. I admit, I have a lot to learn… but I will _not_ be dismissed or treated as some sort of straw-man to make the soldiers nervous. I _am_ your commanding officer… and I will be treated as such. _Is that clear?_" He kept his own voice low; the tones were ones he learned from his father.

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one blinking. Finally she slowly nodded.

"Excellent." He reached past her to the door release. "Shall we proceed?"


	3. Partnership

**Disclaimer**: I do not own many of these characters… the setting is not mine… the story is, however, and is for entertainment purposes only.

**Author's Note**: In response to a very astute criticism – the reason I use italics to spell out inner thoughts is that it is a North American literary convention, and being North American, I default to those conventions. As for it breaking up paragraphs… inner thoughts often come out as asides – in my experience – and fit within as such. I hope it's not _too_ distracting… I do appreciate your views – even if I don't always agree with them.

**Chapter 3: Partnership**

"Yeah, I heard." Crewman Kim didn't seem too upset at his roommate's demise. "We going to thank the son-of-a-bitch?"

"I take it you didn't get along with Crewman George all that well." Torey's tone was surprisingly light and conversational.

_Well, she did say there was an art to this_. Part of that art must be in determining not only which questions, but which inflections were most likely to make the questionee more forthcoming.

"Henry? Henry was a bastard from word Go. I am not sorry he's dead… I'm sorry he was so messy about it."

"You believe he committed suicide, then?" The sentence came out blandly and matter-of-factly. _I don't _care_ if you said 'don't say anything,' we _agreed_ that _I_ was_ your_ commanding officer._ He took care in the delivery, making sure that he sounded as though he hadn't formed an opinion yet.

"Apparently they found him with his head smashed into the deck. I wouldn't have picked him for it – personally – but they say you never can tell."

_No you can't, can you?_ Malcolm focussed his attention on Kim, letting the man's features impress themselves in his mind and keep the other ones at bay.

"So you didn't get along." Again, Torey fell into the pattern of confirmational statements.

"No. I didn't care for his opinions… I didn't care for his habits… and I certainly didn't care for his mood swings." Kim turned away from them and peered down into a microscope. "You could definitely say we didn't get along."

"Well enough to get into a fight?" Now Torey stepped in with a question… a heavily loaded one.

"What makes you…" Kim turned around again. "I thought medical records…"

"The records… yes. The fact that you turned up in sickbay last week… no." Torey's face was unreadable. "It doesn't take a genius to match up those bruises of yours with a fight."

How had she seen… Malcolm looked a little more closely, and picked up the yellowing edge of a healing bruise. Coupled with Kim's attitude, he could see where that led her to the conclusion of a fight.

"Yeah, we had a fight. Or rather, the bastard jumped me. Said I stole his socks. The guy was a friggin' looney. Total section-eight."

"Did you?" Torey's eyebrow arched upwards. "Steal his socks?"

"Of course not. Why would I go stealing another guy's socks?" Kim shook his head. " 'specially not from a bastard like him."

_I can think of several reasons_. So much for not speaking ill of the dead. Malcolm didn't speak aloud however… Kim was enough on the defensive already. _I can't accuse you of torturing the guy… not yet, anyway_.

Torey had a few more questions, then seemed satisfied. "Thank you, Mr. Kim." She made a couple of notes on her pad, and then pocketing her stylus, turned to leave. Malcolm followed.

"I wonder whose those were." Torey looked at Malcolm sideways, as though to see how much he'd noticed.

"I wouldn't know. Can _you_ tell people's socks apart by looking?"

The look turned to one of contempt. "You didn't even see them, did you?"

"See what?" Malcolm didn't even try to keep the irritation out of his voice. "I think you can assume that, no, I did not. I was observing Crewman Kim."

"Which is why you're an armoury officer… not a cop. The surroundings are just as important, evidentiary wise, as the person. You, on the other hand, just didn't see any weapons, so didn't bother looking any more."

"Ensign…" He infused the word with warning. "If you would be so kind as to tell me…"

"The plants," she said, simply.

"Yes, I saw plants." His voice grew even colder. "It was a botany lab… I was _expecting_ to see plants. I would have been more disturbed if there _hadn't_ been any plants."

"_Cannabis Sativa _and _Cannabis Indica_. Somebody's got a nicely set up little grow-op in there."

He didn't bother asking how she'd recognised a couple of plants out of thousands. "Perhaps there's nothing sinister about it. It's a _botany_ lab, Ensign… they study plants. Both the items you named _do_ happen to be plants. Despite their other uses… and yes, Ensign, I do know what several of those might be… they are _still_ plants. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"And sometimes it belongs to the President of the United States, and he ain't the one smoking it," she retorted. "I'd rather be suspicious than naïve."

Malcolm sighed. Wasn't _he_ usually the one on that end of the argument? He caught himself about to say something, then stopped. _No evidence of a drug problem on Enterprise? You're a walking argument against that._ Idly he caught himself wondering if there was any _Nicotiana tabacum_ in there, and his chances of laying his hands on some. _Because if _anything_ is going to tempt me back into that, it's you, Ensign_.

"Where now?" If he didn't say something, he'd only make it worse.

"Crewman Nichols. His other roommate. Let's see if he confirms Kim's story about how much of a bastard George was." Apparently Kim wasn't the only one lacking in sympathy for George… Torey didn't seem to care too much, either.

_Sometimes it helps to look at it as a case… not a person_. Was that _her_ trick? If so, it wasn't one Malcolm felt he could use. Not after the Expanse, and everybody they'd lost in there. _I can't even believe in 'acceptable casualties' anymore_.

And Nichols… why did it have to be Nichols? "We _will_ maintain the fact that I am authority with Nichols, Ensign." It was one thing to play second fiddle when questioning a scientist… quite another when it was another of your subordinates.

He expected another argument, but was surprised when she nodded. "I wouldn't have considered anything else, sir."

_Well, _that's_ a relief._

"Your rank is far more intimidating to Nichols than mine… he has to know that these questions are official, so would be more forthcoming to you than me." So it was a strategic move, nothing more.

_If you would have thought he'd talk to you, you'd walk right over me, wouldn't you, Ensign?_ A nastier inner voice answered that question. _And you'd let her, too, wouldn't you?_

"However… I suggest we take some time to go over the questions I'd like you to ask."

He nodded. _Yes, Malcolm… you are certainly in control here_.

Nichols seemed to have the same opinion as Kim, but was a little more reluctant to express it.

"He wasn't exactly someone I would call a friend, sir." Nichols stood stiffly, at attention.

"I believe I said 'at ease' Crewman."

"Yes, sir." Nichols moved his feet and placed his arms behind his back, but his posture didn't relax in the slightest.

"What, precisely, did you not like about Crewman George?" Malcolm studied Nichols' face closely, if only to convince the crewman that it wouldn't be intelligent to lie to a superior officer.

"He… he had odd temperaments, sir. Strange opinions… and he was nosy, sir."

"Nosy?" Malcolm's eyebrows rose.

"Yes, sir. He was always going into other people's things, sir. I caught him digging through my footlocker a couple of times, sir." Well that was more than Kim would admit.

"Did you have any other difficulties with him? Altercations that you saw fit not to mention?" Kim might not take things like that seriously, but any armoury officer who _didn't_ report an altercation with another crewmember knew they'd land hard on Lieutenant Reed's shit list… and find themselves buried head downward.

"No, sir. I never had any difficulties of that nature with Crewman George, sir."

"With someone else then?" Malcolm had spent enough time around Trip and Hess to spot double-talk when he heard it.

Crewman Nichols seemed to be having trouble holding his lieutenant's gaze. "Sir… no, sir." His voice shook slightly, along with the rest of him.

A thought occurred to Malcolm. It wasn't one of the questions on Torey's list, but he stepped in with it anyway. "And how do you feel about Crewman Kim, Mr. Nichols?"

"Greg? He's fine, sir. I've never had any problems with Greg, sir." The words came out fast – almost too fast.

"None?"

"No, sir. Never problems." Nichols' arms twisted behind his back, like he was wiping sweaty palms on his sleeves.

"Very well, then, Mr. Nichols. That will be all." He made Nichols wait, still jumpy and nervous. "Dismissed."

Nichols moved quickly to escape, stumbling in his hurry to make it to the corridor.

"Well that was…" Torey shook her head. "Sir… there was more…"

Malcolm held up a hand to silence her and crossed over to the nearest console. "Let's just see where he's going, shall we?" He typed in a code, gaining access to the security cameras.

Nichols moved quickly, heading straight down to Botany.

"Nice, sir. Very nice." Contempt turned to approval as Torey leaned in over Malcolm's shoulder.

_I wish you wouldn't do that_. "I'm hardly as stupid as I look, Ensign. I'm surprised you didn't spot it." He couldn't help but sound smug. "Crewman George? But when it comes to Kim, it's all of a sudden _Greg_? Tell me, Ensign… if you lived with someone for over three years… even if you didn't like them… would you still be calling them by their last name?"

"Probably not, sir." They watched as Nichols burst into Botany. A short argument between him and Kim followed, before Kim physically pushed Nichols out of the room. "Too bad we can't get audio."

"Nichols said that I know they've got something… Kim said I knew nothing… that Nichols was overreacting. Then he told him that everything would be fine." He _knew_ he had Torey's full attention now.

"How the hell do you… You can read lips, sir?" She stared at his face, looking almost humbled.

He allowed himself a smile. "Yes, actually, I can. I've found it to be a useful skill over the years. It only works if people are speaking English… but we got lucky this time. I don't tell many people, because then they tend to think I'm spying on their private conversations." _But it may come in handy… if I keep standing too close to explosions_. People thought he was a good listener, because he watched their faces when they spoke. But it was both habit – he could keep track of two conversations at once – and a way of keeping in practice for that inevitable time when his hearing faded, or disappeared entirely. _It's a risk you take, being an armoury officer._ It was a discussion he'd had with Trip once over beers… the engineer opining that he'd rather lose his sight than his hearing – because he could still work by feel and sound – and Malcolm stating that vision took priority over auditory capability. _I can't shoot them, if I can't see them_.

"That's definitely something to keep in mind." Her tone turned speculative. "There's more to you than meets the eye."

"So, I wonder what it is they've apparently got? Clearly not something that will look good on their official records. I wonder what Crewman George was looking for? Care for a surprise inspection?"

"Sir. We can't just break in… the evidence will be tainted." And there was her blind spot.

"You're forgetting, Ensign, that we are not dealing with civilians here. This is a Starfleet vessel, and in my role as Chief of Security I am entitled to conduct inspections whenever I damn well please. There _is_ no expectation of privacy on a starship, even Lieutenant Hess would back me on that."

"Yes, sir. I hear you've pulled a few inspections on her, as well."

Malcolm exploded. "There is not, and never was anything between myself and that squirrel. We're merely friends, and sometimes not even that."

"Yes, sir. Merely reporting what I heard, sir." _He_ could hear the amusement in her voice at his sudden discomfiture.

_It's just that even the thought chills me._ Lieutenant Hess was fine – in small doses.

"Just… squirrel? Do you think she's that unbalanced?"

"Ask Commander Tucker… he's the one who started it. He said she has the temperament of a squirrel on amphetamines. It stuck."

"I can see why." Torey shook her head. "She is a little out of the ordinary… I'm surprised she gets away with it."

"She has talents." In response to Torey's amused look, Malcolm elaborated. "Once she ended up in sickbay and Commander Tucker took over the paperwork for two weeks. By the end of it… let's just say Captain Archer's willing to cut her a lot more slack now.

Torey raised an eyebrow.

"It has been noted that Commander Tucker's skills do not involve paperwork, or for that matter, general management. He's a brilliant engineer, and a great inspirational leader… but you never want to try reading his handwriting. He seems to have trouble with basic maths as well."

"He's an engineer…"

"Oh, he does the complicated stuff just fine… he just seems to have difficulty adding up."

Torey's face twisted, oddly. "So what you're telling me is that he's fine with calculus, but can't put together two and two."

"Twenty-two, if you hammer it right."

_How does he do that?_ Malcolm jumped and spun to find Trip right behind him.

"Get lost?" Trip grinned, cockily.

Malcolm looked at the clock and groaned. "I'm sorry, Commander. I lost track of time." Had it really been over four hours? They'd only talked to two people… he hadn't thought the conversations had gone on _that_ long.

"How hard did you hit your head?" Trip looked at Malcolm, then over at the clock. "I hope you haven't been using that for accurate timekeeping."

_Thank you, God_. "It's broken?"

"Like your skull." Trip confirmed. "What are you trying to do? Challenge me for supremacy in the head-injury championships?"

"I think I can concede that to you, right now." Even with the throbbing… at least he didn't need to have his brains replaced. Trust Trip to have heard, though. _I swear, you could be alone at the bottom of the sea… and you'd _still_ be up to date on the latest gossip._ Anyone who thought women were the worst rumourmongers had yet to meet Trip Tucker. Malcolm's dream was to reveal a piece of scuttlebutt that the commander didn't already know about. More than three years in, and he still hadn't managed it.

"It's been on the repair list for a couple of weeks, now. Since I figured it would prove to be a good excuse to look you up…" Trip pulled back suddenly in response to Torey's cold look. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything." He looked worried, but interested at the same time.

"This is a confidential investigation, Commander. As such, you have no authorization to be here." She stared him down more effectively than Captain Archer seemed able to do.

"Well… I wouldn't want to interrupt anything _confidential_." He spat the words out, sounding insulted. "_Ensign._"

"Stand down. Both of you." Malcolm stepped between them. "For one thing, Trip… she could probably take you apart. Even _with_ Hayes' training… you're still a lousy fighter. And I'm afraid she's right. _However,_" he turned to Torey, "_you_ might remember that you are now a member of _Starfleet_. You aren't a copper anymore. You _cannot_ give orders to senior officers… no matter _what_ your investigative standing." He couldn't help feeling like he was standing between two dogs fighting over a bone. _Which is not a brilliant place to be standing._ "So stop being so goddamned tetchy and try to get along." If they wanted to find out who was alpha…

Amazingly, both of them did back down, even if their hackles remained raised. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Ensign…" He herded Trip off to the side.

"Now…" He knew it wouldn't take much prompting for the Southerner to spill his guts.

"I heard you got hurt. You're my friend, Mal. I don't appreciate being treated like a goddamn spy by some overparanoid control-freak who I happen to outrank by a couple of grades."

"Didn't I just say something about being tetchy? I appreciate your concern… and I even understand the fact that you're stressed… but aren't you usually the _last_ one who worries about things like seniority? Frankly, I'm a little worried about _you_. You're snappish, which usually only happens when you don't sleep. So what the bloody hell is your problem?"

Suddenly Trip wouldn't meet Malcolm's eyes. "Nothin'. Just like I said, I was worried about you getting hurt and all."

_And I'm second cousin to the Queen_. Despite his poker skill, Trip Tucker was a lousy liar. _Something_ clearly had him bothered enough to lose sleep over. _The captain?_ They were certainly close enough friends for Trip to be concerned about Archer's aberrant behaviour of late. But he didn't dare call Trip on it… not the way things stood right now.

"All right… I'm sorry. Just try to remember that this is alien territory for all of us except Ensign Holley. If she oversteps her bounds… well, she _is_ the person who knows what she's doing."

"Yeah, I remember her giving you hell back in the Cargo bay. Well, don't lose track of any more time, y'hear? I think I've got that technique figured out, so prepare to get your ass kicked."

"Now why am I not frightened? Given that the last time, you nearly impaled yourself, I doubt you've improved that much in the interim." At least Trip seemed to be giving up his impending grudge.

"I'll get you yet, Mal. Unless you're just too scared to show."

"Right." _Need I remind you that I've been playing for years? That I actually have _ranking_ back home? The day _you_ beat _me_…_ "I'm beginning to wonder which one of us hit his head, Commander."

Trip laughed, and slapped him hard on the shoulder. "Don't forget. And I'm stealing your clock… so you better use another one." He dropped his voice… "And don't let Attila the Hunette over there walk all over you. Show her who's boss."

"This from the man who lets Lieutenant Hess…"

"Hey. Hess is funny. There's a big difference." Trip turned to go remove the clock.

"Yes, I will agree with funny…" Malcolm murmured.

"Don't you go picking on my Hess." Trip turned back and fixed Malcolm with a mock glare. "Or I'll tell her about it… and I'll bet _she_ could kick _your_ ass."

"Grow up." Malcolm couldn't help laughing. "Besides… Hess and I are getting along right now."

"You are? Damn. You know, you guys really ought to pick a side. Or at least post a scorecard so the rest of us know where we stand."

"What? And spoil all the fun?" Malcolm grinned evilly, then sobered. "Unfortunately, Ensign Holley and I _do_ have an investigation to return to. The captain is expecting an update…"

"Which I'll give him," Torey stated. "I think I have a better idea of what he does and doesn't need to know."

"Um…" Trip stepped sideways, putting more space between him and Torey. "You are _not_ intending to stonewall _Archer_ on this, are you? That's not exactly a smart…"

"Career move? Frankly, Commander, I don't give a damn about Starfleet politics in this instance. This is a _criminal_ investigation. One of your people is dead… the Lieutenant and I are trying to determine who put him in that state. However, details _are_ confidential, and I don't care what your rank is, because as far as I am concerned, when it comes to an investigation, not one of you guys could find your asses with both hands, a map, and detailed verbal instructions."

"That's enough!" Malcolm spun around. "Now I appreciate your expertise, Ensign, but you will not take that tone with a senior officer… is that clear?" He could see an answer brewing in her eyes and stared it down. "Now there _will_ be repercussions from this – I guarantee it. You may be the expert here, but you _will_ respect the chain of command."

"Yes, sir." She turned on her heel and left, without waiting for a dismissal.

"Whoa." Trip shook his fingers like he'd just been burned. "That is one scary lady, Mal. She oughta come with a warning… and maybe some tags to prove she's had a rabies shot. If she pulls that shit on the captain…"

"She won't," Malcolm promised. "I'll deal with it… it's my responsibility for letting it get out of hand in the first place. Unfortunately she _is _the only person here who knows what she's doing so I have to give her some leeway."

"Yeah, well, watch how much rope you give her. Someone like that's liable to hang you along with herself."

Malcolm felt the room spin again, and forced himself to take deep, slow breaths. _I wish you hadn't said that, Commander._

"Jesus Christ, Mal! I think the Doc let you outta sickbay too soon. You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I'm fine. Really." He smiled, even though he knew it wasn't convincing.

"Okay, but… I don't like the idea of you having fainting spells, Mal. If there's something wrong with you, you really should have Phlox check it out."

"Trust me, Commander, there's nothing the doctor can do about it. However, I do have a brewing problem to take care of, so if I can leave you to dismantling my armoury…"

"It'll be better than new when you get back. Engineer's promise." Trip raised his hand in the traditional boy-scout salute.

"I've got enough stress as it is. I _know_ what you engineers do to things in the name of 'improvement.' Just make sure I have an armoury to come back to." He left Trip laughing and headed off in search of Torey.

He found her in the movie theatre – alone. She was watching something he couldn't identify… a cartoon about a scruffy, floppy eared dog and a long-legged blue and purple bird. "Ensign?"

"Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner. You know, just once I wish they'd have let him succeed in getting that damned bird."

"Cartoons, Ensign?" He tried to keep his voice impassive, but she seemed so… vulnerable, all alone in the dark, watching children's programming.

"Remember I told you about Craig? My friend with the Horsemen? It was five years ago, today, that he dropped himself twenty stories to the sidewalk."

_Oh, damn._ No wonder she was so edgy. "I'm sorry." He came down the aisle and sat beside her.

"You had nothing to do with it, sir. Most cops don't go that way. Shooting, hanging… that's more typical. We usually do it in private, not public."

"It's still hard to deal with. Especially with…"

"Do you mind if we just watch, sir? I'm not really in a mood for conversation."

"All right." He settled back in his seat, allowing himself to be caught up in the Sisyphean struggles of an anthropomorphic coyote trying to catch an anthropomorphic, mis-coloured roadrunner. He wondered if Torey saw herself in that coyote, forever chasing down something she couldn't catch. But no matter how much he failed… the coyote never gave up. Just never gave up.


	4. Ghosts

Disclaimer: These are not my characters… most of them, anyway. The setting is not mine… the story is.

Author's note: A couple of different friends have tried to teach me how to play darts. I still play like Trip… maybe worse. Oh, and sb? Space break. Sorry, but this has eliminated what I was using before... and that's the only thing I could find that works.

**Chapter 4: Ghosts**

"You made it. I was half expecting to have to go down and rescue you from the clutches of evil." Trip handed Malcolm a set of darts. "Now prepare to be amazed."

"I'll be amazed if you actually hit the board." Malcolm stepped up to the line and placed three solid hits. He'd made sure to handle the report to the captain… but to his senior officer's disgust didn't reveal too many details.

"I'll just have to start calling you Thomas, Doubtful." Trip took a position on the line. Malcolm winced as metal clanged against metal and the dart rebounded from the wall and almost all the way back to them.

"A little _less_ force. You're trying to place them, not put them through the board. It's not a football, and you've only got to throw it 2.36 metres, not ninety yards."

"You make a ninety-yard _rush_, not throw a ninety-yard pass. If you're still holdin' the ball by the time your receiver makes ninety – you're sittin' under a six foot pile of linebackers." If Trip packed any more disdain into the tone, it would have fallen apart from overstress.

"You know, Americans are the only people in the world who would give the name 'football' to a game where you hardly ever use your feet." And then have the temerity to re-name football – real football – soccer, and convince everybody else to follow along.

"Hey, Canada's got it too. Three downs instead of four, though…and two points for a safety touch instead of going with a fair catch – I wonder why they went like that?"

"Why don't you ask Ensign Holley? She's Canadian." As soon as he spoke, Malcolm regretted it.

"I'd rather ask Satan himself. That girl has got some serious problems… especially when it comes to respect."

Malcolm laid down his darts. "And I say again: this from the man who lets Lieutenant Hess do whatever she pleases."

"Yeah, well… Hess has let me do some of that, too. Or something like…" Trip had the decency to look embarrassed.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what pray tell?"

"I've had a few moments of … overindulgence in my life… and Hess has been kind enough to ignore some of the things I've said… or at least sober me up enough to let me apologise."

"In other words, you've gotten drunk and said things to her that you shouldn't have." _That_ was hardly a revelation…

"Putting it like that… still, the fact that she puts up with me… besides, like I said, she makes me laugh. _And_, if I tell Hess she's outta line, she doesn't talk back like that."

"We discussed it." Well, they'd discussed something. _Everybody deals with things differently_. And anniversaries were always the worst. It was as though somehow the day took on a taint that could never be washed away. _It's never 'just another day,' no matter how much we want it to be._ Somehow the mind knew – even before the calendar was checked… even before consciousness could register the day – something in the mind knew the importance, and triggered the pain. _And then you realise… you look down like that coyote and realise that there's no ground beneath your feet. And then you fall_.

Trip shook his head. "I just never thought it of you, Malcolm. Letting someone get away with things like that? How hard _did_ you hit your head?"

Malcolm tapped his fingers just below his stitches. "Exhibit A. And proof that our dear Doctor does indeed have a sense of humour." He needed to change the subject… get away from thinking about death.

"We'll have to rename him," Trip agreed. "Phloxenstein. 'Igor… get me a new brain…'" Typical of Trip to joke about his own injuries, though Malcolm recognised the black humour in the tone.

"Knowing Phlox, he _would_ send Hess' rabbit after one, too." He'd had to pull every trick he knew of to discover the name of _that_ creature. It was no secret that she _had_ a rabbit – as Malcolm discovered the hard way: through an overdose of histamines – but getting her to admit it had been another matter. And when he'd finally seen it… _I never would have picked her for the Florence Nightingale type, but then I guess when it comes to animals…_even Archer had relented when he found out how abused the poor thing had been before she found it. _Then again, animals are his soft spot too_.

Trip burst out laughing. "Isn't he just such a sweetie, though? Igor, I mean, not Phlox."

"God, I never picked _you_ for the little fuzzy-animals type." He pushed it further into 'safe topic' territory.

Trip shook his head, still laughing. "Shows how observant _you_ are. I've _always_ liked animals… I had a dog when I was a kid, you know. And I was the one who actually found Evil Thing, for her… I just couldn't keep pets where I was staying. Some asshole had just dropped him in the middle of the road, left him there. I know… because they left him in this little box. He was just peeking over the top… scared of all the traffic. I nearly caused an accident, I hit the brakes so fast… and then heading out over two lanes of traffic just to get him… I was on a date… the girl thought I was crazy. Poor little guy… he was half starved, and scared to death… he sunk his teeth into my hand – boy did they panic in the emergency room when they saw that – and scratched the hell out of me, but I couldn't leave him there. When I got him to Hess… she took one look and fell in love. The rest is history."

"So it's _you_ I have to blame for my suffering." Malcolm picked up one of the darts and pretended to aim at Trip.

"Hey. You're allergic to the rabbit, not the cat. I had nothing to do with the rabbit." Trip raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Malcolm laughed, and – like Trip – proceeded to distract himself for the rest of the evening.

sb

__

_I had to do it… it's the right thing to do_. Malcolm made his way cautiously down the hallway, waiting for something to jump out of the shadows and get even, or just inflict the cruelty the universe seemed to have set aside for him. He hated telling… but it was the _rule_. And Jamie _had_ been breaking the law, and putting other students at risk… even if it _was_ their choice to get involved.

Still… he felt bad about it, felt like he'd betrayed his roommate – one of the few people inclined to tolerate his presence. Not that they were friends – Malcolm Reed didn't _have_ any friends – but Jamie allowed him to co-exist without hassle. He even occasionally admitted that Malcolm was there – taking his activities to another room if Malcolm was trying to work or sleep. _At least I _thought_ it was out of fairness to me_. With what he'd found though… it was probably more a security measure on Jamie's part than anything.

_Fake prescriptions_. Jamie's father was a doctor – it hadn't been difficult for the boy to lay his hand on some scrip pads. He'd set up a business selling the prescriptions – not to his fellow students, but to other poor souls desperate for something to make them feel better. He'd recruited his fellow students more as employees – cutting them in for about a quarter of what he himself made off of their sales.

Carefully he pushed open the door to their room, afraid of what might await him inside. No revenge waited with clenched fists, however – the room remained silent and still.

Slowly, he stepped inside, then froze. He wanted to scream, but his chest refused to expand, refused to let the air in. Jamie waited for him in the room – but not to beat him, only to castigate him for his betrayal. Blue eyes bulged in a face that matched – hypoxia had already taken hold. His jaw hung slackly as he twisted, held aloft by the bed sheet tied to a hook in the ceiling. He paused in his motion, dead eyes accusing his Judas.

Light exploded in Malcolm's own eyes, pinprick spots expanding into fireworks. He felt himself falling, down forever, with Jamie watching, eternally angry and betrayed.

sb

Malcolm woke, gasping and disoriented. Cold sweat drenched him – and the darkness wasn't familiar, wasn't darkness at all. He stood in the dim light of the storage bay, staring at a crate that shouldn't still be there – that wouldn't still be there were it not for his weakness.

_Somnambulism._ He hadn't sleepwalked in – he couldn't remember the last time he'd done it. As for coming here... well he _did_ know why he'd done that. _Pathetic_.

He reached towards the lid release, not wanting to, and wanting to desperately. He'd seized these from Crewman Dennis when they'd started out… they were still here, perfectly preserved.

_What makes you better than him?_ The answer came easily. _Nothing. You're worse; you're weak; you're pathetic._ These should have been destroyed, but for some reason he'd kept them, safely away in storage. _For a moment like now? For when you finally stop fighting back and admit that you haven't got the strength to live without it?_

The lid opened, air rushing through the seals. Unbidden, his hand reached in and pulled a carton free – breaking the symmetry of a solid block. _This is going to kill me_. His fingers found a seam in the cellophane and pulled it away. _It's pure poison… look what it did to George_. A single pack came free, emerging easily from its covering. _You're an addict… you can't do this and just put them away._ A single paper covered cylinder poked its head out when he tapped the box against his palm. _Fuck it_. He pulled the cigarette all the way free and stuck the filtered end between his lips. _Now, for something to light it with._ He wasn't carrying anything in his underwear – the only clothes he had on, he realised suddenly. _And nobody stopped me?_ So much for Hoshi thinking she was the only one who could disappear. _I walked three decks in my underwear and nobody even tried to stop me._ Walking over to a wall panel, he pulled it off and grinned humourlessly. _A plasma conduit… perfect._ How many people got burned by these puppies – the walls were hot enough to scorch anything. Paper and tobacco began to smoulder as he pressed the tip of the cigarette against the conduit. _You can light them off of anything, if it's hot enough_. He'd used the toaster some mornings… Stuart hadn't been impressed upon finding that one out.

He inhaled, feeling the smoke burn into his lungs. Tears invaded his eyes, but his body responded instantly. _This is good_, it told him, _this is what you've been needing. _He could feel the pressure easing, the tension slipping away. A second drag told him that this _wasn't_ a mistake… that the mistake had been quitting in the first place. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes…

…and opened them again, spluttering. Water dripped off his face and hair, soaking his shoulders and torso and collecting in a puddle at his feet. Less than a foot away stood Trip, holding a now empty bucket.

"Sorry. I saw smoke, thought you were on fire." The words were light but Trip's eyes held a mixture of worry and accusation. "Aren't those things supposed to be unhealthy for you? Didn't you mention something about an addiction?"

"Yes, mother." Malcolm glared at his friend, and dropped the now damp cigarette to the ground. He palmed the box, keeping it out of Trip's sight. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I couldn't sleep. Hess told me that if I spent any more time in Engineering she was going to tell on me… I come down here, sometimes. It's quiet… we don't keep anything really important in this area… so I don't get people bugging me. Plus, when someone said you were headed this way dressed only in your skivvies… I figured I should make sure you were okay."

"In other words, you just wanted to know what the hell was going on." Definitely bordering on the pathological.

"Well… yeah. But I didn't expect to find you down here, killing yourself."

"Don't be so melo…"

"Hey." Trip shifted onto the defensive. "_You_ told _me_ that it was slow suicide."

"So I'll get my lungs replaced… big deal." He turned away, planning to go back to his quarters.

"Well… I'll get rid of the rest of them then…" Trip moved towards the crate.

"No!" Malcolm spun back to face them. "Those are evidence." He thought quickly… knowing he couldn't have them disappear.

"What? Someone stuffed Henry full of cigarettes? Give me a break, Mal." Trip moved towards the box again.

"You… you can't tell. Not even the captain." Malcolm looked around conspiratorially, then stepped closer. "He was poisoned… the poison is found in cigarettes."

Trip stepped backwards. "Whoa… Mal…"

"You can't tell anybody… Ensign Holley would probably find a way to get me court-martialled if she found out I told you, if she didn't kill me first. You've _got_ to keep it a secret."

Trip nodded. "I will. I _promise_."

Suddenly Malcolm felt like shit. Trip took promises seriously. And Malcolm had just played on the man's biggest insecurity – had just led Trip into believing that he was a part of the bigger picture in the investigation. _Just so you wouldn't throw away what _I_ can't do without. Just like an addict… lying to my best friend to get what I want._ There was a reason they called addicts 'users.'

"Well… it it's evidence… we'd better keep it safe." Trip rummaged in one of the storage lockers and pulled out a door seal. "It's got a counter on it… that way we'll know if anybody tried to break in. And I can install a camera up there… and we'll see who it was." The look on Trip's face indicated that he had a fair idea just who was liable to break in.

"Good idea, Commander." _Lieutenant Hess is right – you _are_ a mother hen_. Trip seemed to be forgetting just whom he was dealing with, though. _I am Chief of Security. I have codes to override everything. Including your security camera._ As for the lock… well, the commander wasn't the only one who knew how to get through locks without using keys.

"Still… why aren't you wearing anything?" Trip looked him up and down.

"I usually don't when I go to sleep." He thanked his lucky stars he'd been wearing this much. _From now on, I'm going to have to sleep in a uniform. Just to be safe_.

"You _sleepwalked_ your way down here? What's bugging _you_, Mal?"

Well, if Trip didn't have to admit anything… "Nothing. Somnambulism is not necessarily a sign of mental stress."

"Malcolm…"

"I'm fine. There's absolutely…"

"Lieutenant. Don't make me make it an order."

"I had a bad dream. I'm sure you're familiar with the phenomenon. Nothing more, nothing less." He didn't want to tell Trip about Jamie… he hadn't told _anyone_ about Jamie in a long time. _The last person I told was the Starfleet psychologist. And that was _only_ because background research dug up the incident._

"Well… if there's anything you want to talk about. You know I'm your friend, Mal."

"I know. It's just that there's nothing to talk about." _When I was fourteen-years-old my roommate at school committed suicide. He did so because I informed on him. I discovered the body. There is nothing more to say than that._ Really, what else _was_ there to say? Talking about it wouldn't change the past… wouldn't bring Jamie back to life, and it sure as hell wouldn't expiate Malcolm's guilt. "Now if you don't mind… I'd like to go get dressed. I'm sure Ensign Holley will be happy to get back to working on the case."

"Okay… well you know where to find me." Trip didn't sound like he believed… didn't sound like he wanted to believe.

_That works both ways, friend._ He'd consider opening up about his problem as soon as the engineer did with his.

He returned to his quarters for a shower and shave, then walked down to Torey's, the cigarette box tucked safely into his pocket. He'd treated himself to another one – an entire one, this time – while shaving. Then – like the guilty addict he was – covered it over with mouthwash.

He reached for the doorbell, but changed it to a knock midway, standing out of the way of the door. He wasn't sure why… except that his paranoid muscles were kicking into overdrive. Not that he was afraid of Torey… _but you should _never_ approach a door head on… even if you think the situation is safe_. When had he stopped being cautious? _When this place became home. When it became your small, secure little town._ Except the little town wasn't secure and safe anymore.

"Good timing, sir. I was just about to go get you." The door slid open and Torey stepped out. "Dr. Phlox says that Crewman Styles has come out of the sedative… he's willing to let us interview her."

"Excellent."

She sniffed, then looked him over, carefully. "A little excessive with the mint this morning, sir?"

"Rest assured, Ensign… I am as sober as a judge." That – at least – was true. Nicotine – while toxic – hardly came under the label of intoxicating.

"I've met a few judges, sir. That's hardly reassuring." She didn't press him further, and he was sure he detected a hint of dry humour in her tone. "I'm glad to see you're looking better, sir."

"All I needed was some sleep." _And a little bit of poison._ On the other hand… if it let him function… _I can quit anytime_. He heard the dry humour in his own tones… even if it was just in his head. It was – after all – the mantra of the addict in denial. _But I'm _not_ in denial. I fully _admit_ that I am a hopeless, craven addict… I just don't care anymore_. After all, only a complete egotist thought he had no problems. Wasn't the well-balanced person supposed to accept himself, warts and all?

He nearly balked at the doors to sickbay – what if Trip had said something to Phlox? What if Phlox somehow smelled the smoke on him… even though he'd carefully timed it for _before_ the shower, to wash it all away. He'd broken up his usual grooming routine to pull that off… but he didn't need any more lectures.

"You can have twenty minutes… I still don't want her leaving sickbay. She's had quite a shock…" Phlox bustled towards them, looking concerned.

"Where the hell are my guards?" Torey glared around sickbay as though they'd gone into hiding.

"Crewman Styles has been unconscious and under my care, Ensign… I assume they are getting some rest and some food."

"You have no authority to dismiss my people, Doctor." Malcolm shared Torey's indignance. "They were here for a reason…" He was angry with himself, too. He hadn't noticed that the guards had been missing when he'd come in for his head injury.

Phlox pulled back, defensively. "This is my sickbay… have the authority to expel the _captain_ if I feel it is necessary."

"You stupid…" Torey cut herself off, but she was shaking. "You know, you guys are damned lucky that you've got me here… because when it comes to fucking up an investigation I have _yet_ to see your matches. You can't play Mr. Nice Guy in a situation like this. You think it was hard on them to have to stand guard? Try being Crewman George for a moment. We've got somebody running around this ship who thinks it's okay to kill people." She closed her eyes. "I can't believe I have to deal with this level of incompetence."

"Lieutenant…"

"She's correct, Doctor." Malcolm saw no reason to pretend anything other than the truth. "You shouldn't have just dismissed the guards."

"I didn't. _You_ did." Trust Phlox to save that up until the perfect moment.

"I did no such thing, Doctor." Surely Phlox knew better than to take anything Malcolm said while unconscious as serious… and he couldn't imagine saying anything like that even while unconscious.

"Shortly after I had Crewman Styles settled in, one of your people came in and informed them that they no longer had to maintain their status… and that the order came directly from you."

"Who?" Malcolm and Torey spoke as one.

"I'm not certain… but he _did_ wear an armoury uniform… and your people seemed to know him… or at least accept his legitimacy."

"See the uniform, not the person," Torey muttered. "I love a good eyewitness." She turned towards the curtained off bed. "We'll definitely have to re-brief our security personnel as to proper procedures. You're certain it was a man."

"He was tall… and had a deep voice… and – oddly, now that I think of it – he had a neat beard. Don't regulations specify that all male personnel must be…"

"Clean shaven," Malcolm confirmed.

"So you don't know for sure."

"Facial hair and voice generally indicate a male – in the human species. Males are generally taller…"

Torey drew herself up to full height and looked over at Malcolm. "I'm taller than he is, doctor… and given the right materials I could give myself quite a lot of facial hair. And a lot of voice actors can play the parts fitting the opposite gender. It's quite common in animated film. And don't even bring up boobs… because I'm pretty flat chested… and it's not hard to make it flatter."

"I don't suppose you paid much attention to his hands, or more specifically his wrists, Doctor." Phlox might have… he was a physician after all.

Both Torey and Phlox turned to look at Malcolm in surprise.

"They're one of the few things on the body that are extremely difficult to disguise… mainly because they have such definitive bone structure. Even when everything else is made to look like the opposite gender…"

"I had no idea you were such an expert on cross-dressing, sir." Torey's look of surprise grew more intense.

"Actually, Ensign… England has a long history of pantomime. Traditional Shakespearian theatre employed no female actors… even the female parts are played by men. There are still some companies out there who stick with the tradition… because it _is_ tradition."

"I didn't realise that you were an actor, sir." Now she looked like she was trying not to laugh.

"_As I was saying_… I don't suppose you paid much attention…"

"No, I did not." Phlox digested Malcolm's information. "However… I believe that it something I will pay attention to in the future. It is a point of human physiognomy that seems to have slipped past me. Thank you for bringing it to my awareness, Lieutenant."

"Well, at least Crewman Styles is still here." Torey strode over to the curtain, and pulled it back.

"I thought you said she was awake, sir." Styles lay with her eyes closed, unmoving.

"She… Oh my goodness." Phlox pushed them aside, and ran a portable scanner over Styles' body. Three sets of eyes flew to the bio-bed readouts, which showed Styles breathing comfortably. "She's dead. Just a few minutes ago she was fine… I spoke with her… that's why I called you, Ensign. How could I have not…"

"Because someone tampered with your alarm system." Torey still hadn't taken her eyes off the read-outs. "When she stopped breathing… the sensors didn't even notice. As far as they were concerned, she was fine. At least we have a fairly accurate time of death… provided that you _are_ telling the truth, Doctor."

"Of course, I am." Phlox looked hurt, shocked and insulted all at the same time. "To have this happen in my sickbay… under my watch…"

"Under _our_ watch…" Malcolm countered. "We were all here."

"Fuck." Torey stormed across the room and slammed her fist into the wall. "Right under our fucking noses. Doctor, I want a full autopsy done… look for anything you can think of. Take her apart down to the atomic level if you have to…I want everything. And I'm assigning you a guard as well."

"Ah, but who can you trust?" Phlox asked, sadly. "If this person is as elusive as he or she seems…"

"Fine." She handed him her phase pistol – Malcolm hadn't even realised she'd booked one out. "You've been trained with this, I assume?"

"Yes, but…"

"Don't be a hero, Doc. Don't hesitate. It _has_ a stun setting… if it turns out to be a false alarm you can apologise later. It's the one advantage they have over guns. I don't care if it's Sub-commander T'Pol, or Commander Tucker or even fucking Captain Archer. Fuck… I don't care if it's me. Shoot first, and ask questions later. I've got to go get my kit… don't touch anything. You can _scan_ the body for a prelim… but move nothing."

"You know, that's not exactly advice I expected to hear from a copper." Malcolm followed her out.

"What? Don't touch anything? We say it all the time." Torey moved quickly and Malcolm had to hurry to keep up.

"Shoot first and ask questions later. And I thought it was 'First witness, first suspect.' Surely handing a suspect a weapon…"

"At least I _know_ he's armed… I won't get lulled into thinking he isn't. And like you keep telling me… I'm not a cop anymore."

"There's more to it than that." There was obviously more to it than that… and as her commanding officer… as her partner in this investigation… he felt he needed to know. _I also need another cigarette._

"I don't like it when people die in my custody. It's my job to protect them, to keep them alive." There was more to it than _that_ too… but strangely – for her – she seemed to be keeping it hidden.

While Torey collected her kit, Malcolm made his escape. He ducked into the small toilet off the armoury and locked the door behind him.

_If she smelled the mouthwash, she's definitely going to smell this_. Then again, what was she going to do about it? Tell on him to Captain Archer? _You already suspect him of being an alcoholic… are you really going to rat me out to the type of person you hate the most?_ At least this time, he had a lighter. _A good little Eagle Scout… aren't you, Malcolm? Always prepared for every emergency._ He let the chemicals soothe his nerves, used the simple act of smoking to control his breathing. The exhaust fans kicked in, detecting the presence of noxious fumes and pulling them away.

Someone banged on the door. "Hurry up, sir. Time is wasting."

"Coming, Ensign." He dropped the cigarette into the toilet and flushed. _Evidence destroyed_. He washed his hands and popped a piece of gum in his mouth…further evidence of an addictive past. _I plan ahead to cover it up_. At least she wouldn't smell it on his breath, just maybe his clothes and his hair. _And I don't intend to have her sniffing those in the next little while – not that she ever would._ While it might be nice, it would also be wrong. _Not to mention the fact that she already thinks that I'm a transvestite._

She gave him an odd look as he came out… but said nothing more.

"I threw up." He lied. "I didn't think you'd want to smell it on my breath… and I _sure_ as hell didn't want the taste in my mouth."

"Don't worry, sir. I wasn't planning to smell your breath again. The first time was just a little overwhelming." She granted him a small smile… one that didn't seem sarcastic. "Most people throw up with the messy ones."

"The stress is getting to me." That was truth… it was all about the stress.

"It should, sir. This is your first one. First times are never easy." She seemed to soften with his confession. They were alone in the hallway now, and she gave his hand a small squeeze. "You'll be fine."

"Thank-you, Ensign."

"No problem, Partner." To his regret, she pulled her hand away and became all business. "Just quit lying to me, eh? I can't trust you to work with me if you're going to do things like that."

"Lying…"

"You weren't throwing up, sir. No one recovers from puking that quickly… and I've got a good sense of smell."

"Yes… well…" How to get out of this one…

"Just… where did you find them, sir? I wouldn't have thought that cancer sticks were Starfleet issue."

He gave up. "No, they're not. Which is why I seized them in the first place."

"Ah… the privileges of rank." She sounded only slightly sarcastic… rare for her.

He grabbed her arm and stopped her for a moment. "Let me get this straight… you don't have a problem with this? I thought… given your background…"

"I have trouble with impaired judgement, and I have trouble with evasive and careless behaviour. Addiction is a medical problem – I won't deny that – but it's one that can be controlled. The problem is the intoxicating effects of most addictive substances and the accompanying behaviours of an addiction."

"The lying, the deception, the hurting other people."

"In the basic, mild cases… then there's the violence, theft, suicide… and all the other crimes that often come with it. The straight out callousness. The fact that when it comes down to it… a true addict will feed their habit before feeding their children."

He turned his head away, unable to face her. _I knew this would damage my credibility, but I did it anyway. I have no one to blame for this but myself._ Why should she trust him? Trip didn't trust him… and Trip trusted damn near everybody.

"Did you notice if anyone had taken any before you?"

"I considered that…" He sighed, and tried to remember. No… he'd pulled the first carton out. "Not that I could tell."

"I wasn't expecting that anybody had." She looked at him sideways. "Do you know why?"

"Because while cigarettes _do_ contain nicotine… it's not easy to extract enough for a fatal dose – even though you don't need much. And Phlox's report said it was _pure_ nicotine… not the adulterated stuff that you'd get from distilling prepared tobacco."

"Very good, sir." Again, he felt like a bright pupil receiving praise from his teacher. They reached sickbay before he could delve any more into the conversation.

_Damn _and_ blast._ She shifted straight back into professional mode, closing down behind her walls again. He recognised now that _that_ was how she used her bluntness… it let people think that she had nothing to hide, so they wouldn't dig deeper. And it drove them away, because they thought she didn't care.

"I was able to isolate the fatal substance," Phlox didn't even look up as they entered sickbay. "It appears to be another plant derivative, one which also works on the nicotinic receptors."

"So soon?" Malcolm walked over and looked at Phlox's preliminary report.

"Since I knew this time to look for a foreign agent, and given Crewman Style's symptoms I was able to narrow my search…"

"So which plant poison was it this time?" Torey began collecting evidence from the bed and from Styles just as meticulously as she had in the cargo bay.

"Chondrodendron tomentosum. It was a common poison among hunters in some rainforest areas on Earth. The victim is entirely paralysed… which explains why none of us heard anything… and death usually follows in seconds.

"Curare?" That was insane – nobody used curare anymore. It didn't even have a legitimate medical use… not when there were so many more effective and less risky drugs available.

"You know about it, sir?" Torey's head whipped around.

"Well, not from personal experience." After all… that wasn't on the list. Arsenic, cyanide, strychnine, tar, ammonia, freon, titanium oxide, carbon monoxide, benzene, cadmium, formaldehyde, turpentine – of course, the lovely nic, and not to mention a common anti-freeze… curare would simply be overkill.

"I've never even heard of it." Torey stared at him more closely now.

"My family has done extensive travel… all over the world. There are certain things you learn when you pay attention." He didn't mention that it had been his Aunt Sherry who introduced him to the topic of poisons… Stuart and his bugs were bad enough. Best not to volunteer the fact that you had a 'murder addict' in the family… even if she did prefer the fictional 'country house' variety. _I doubt you'd be so keen if you saw it close up_. Then again… this was Aunt Sherry – she'd always been a little dotty. "South American rainforests… Argentina and Brazil, mostly. It was used for hunting… it was also used as an anti-convulsant. If I remember correctly…" He stared up at the ceiling, thinking. "… the victim is paralysed, but remains cognizant until loss of consciousness due to hypoxia. The heart actually remains beating after the breathing stops… death is due to asphyxia."

"And they used this for _hunting?_" Torey clearly couldn't believe it. "Were they _insane?_"

It felt good being the one with the knowledge for a change. "Actually, while lethal if injected into the bloodstream, curare is rarely toxic when consumed… the acids and enzymes in the digestive system are capable of breaking it down to a point where it is relatively harmless."

"Cute. Well, since you're such an expert… any ideas on _how_ they got it in here to administer it to Crewman Styles without any of us noticing?"

Malcolm sighed. He hated to implicate somebody else, but… "Actually, it wouldn't be that hard to sneak in here. If Doctor Phlox was distracted, he might not have noticed, and Crewman Styles' area _was_ curtained off…"

"Are you suggesting, Lieutenant, that I wouldn't notice someone in my sickbay, killing my patient?" Phlox looked insulted – as he had every right to be.

_Actually, that is _precisely_ what I was suggesting_. After all, Phlox hadn't paid that much attention when they'd returned from the armoury, and he'd been warned that his _own_ life was in danger. "You let your latest little discovery get you caught up just now, and Ensign Holley and I weren't even _trying_ to be stealthy. You let some non-uniform code _stranger_ waltz in and dismiss…"

"That person is not the only one I have noticed on board this ship with non-regulation hair, Lieutenant. Lieutenant Hess, for example…"

"Lieutenant Hess does not work in the armoury, Doctor." _Thank God, _"And Commander Tucker's peculiarities in that area are hardly the issue here. What _is_ at issue is the fact that you didn't notice someone in plain sight who was being fairly obvious. Your attention to detail with regards to security does leave something to be desired. And _actually_ doctor, the entire _process_ of paralysis can take as long as ten minutes. Death may follow in seconds after breathing stops… but usually it takes longer than that." This felt even stranger than knowing more than Torey – knowing more than Phlox. He felt edgy and on the verge of rage. Security wasn't _Phlox's_ job; it was _Lieutenant Malcolm Reed's_ job. As a Reed, there was a high standard to live up to, and he had just allowed two people to get killed – failing at that standard miserably.

_And…_ he kicked himself mentally, _it was damn near a third_. He _should_ have stayed here to secure the crime scene… _should_ have stayed here to protect Phlox. _But no, you had to go bugger off and have a quick smoke, instead_. On the other hand…

He pulled Torey off to the side, away from Phlox's hearing. "Why didn't you tell me to stay behind… secure the crime scene?"

She sighed and closed her eyes, not like she was frustrated, but like a person recalling their reasoning for an event. "Well… would you have known what to look for if someone tampered with evidence anyway?" She nodded towards the doctor, "Especially if it was him?"

"Probably not," he admitted.

"And since _you_ seem to know more about these poisons than _he_ does… it was probably a good idea to keep an eye on you… because I'll bet he couldn't detect evidence tampering any quicker than you could… mostly because you don't understand each other's specialties. _You_ probably don't know what procedures constitute an autopsy, and he probably isn't aware of crime-scene procedure. It's a lot easier to tamper with evidence when you have an official right to be there."

"But that meant we left him…" It didn't seem right to consider Phlox as a suspect… but they had to consider everybody.

"_You_ know more about the placement of the security cameras. Even the ones that aren't supposed to be there?" She smiled, mischievously.

"Don't tell him about those." Malcolm spoke out of the side of his mouth. "He'll _demand_ I take them out… patient privacy and all. And given the fact that _Starfleet_ would back him on that…" He'd installed them as the number of violent sickbay incidences increased. Somehow it seemed as though all the dangerous people ended up in here.

"Right. So if _he_ did anything, at least we have it on tape. _You_, on the other hand, would be better equipped to hide your actions."

"But wouldn't that be 'illegally obtained evidence?'" He'd spent some time brushing up on his criminal procedure last night… actually going to the lengths of speaking to Lieutenant Hess for advice on the right materials. "And therefore any evidence arising from that would be inadmissible?"

She sighed. "Possibly not. _If _the cameras were installed for the direct purposes of gathering evidence in this case… then the lack of warrant might prove fatal to our investigation. But since they were installed some time _before_ this… a good lawyer might be able to argue that any evidence gathered from them is coincidental to the illegality of their existence. It's… it's like a peeping tom taping their neighbour… and catching a home invasion in the process. The evidence on that tape is still valid."

"In other words… if there _is_ something on those tapes, we're on shaky ground, here."

"We're always on shaky ground," Torey muttered. "A good lawyer can screw up anything."

"She'll be glad to hear that. She always thought that was Commander Tucker's forte."

Torey laughed, suddenly. "Well, I am so glad to make Lieutenant Hess' day. Sometimes it's hard to believe she's as intelligent as they say."

"Captain Archer has a theory on that. According to him, apart they are actually two very intelligent people, but put them together and somehow the whole fails to equal even a fraction of the sum of the parts. Unless, of course, you're measuring chaos, at which point the synergy is amazing." He wanted to hold onto this moment a little longer… Torey's laugh made him feel good… almost dulling his craving for another smoke. Almost. "Seriously… I think her intelligence is the only thing that lets her get away with some of the stuff she does… even Commander Tucker can't protect her that much. You realise that she did UC Berkley Engineering and Stanford Law at the same time? That's considered pretty much impossible… it's a huge academic load… but she pulled it off. Even Starfleet will grant some leeway in return for that level of genius."

As for her being on _Enterprise_, well he'd learned that Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Hess were sort of a package deal: not only were they friends, but Commander Tucker seemed to be one of the few people who could keep her somewhat in line. Everyone else ended up being somewhat off-put by Hess' hyperkinetic personality… but Commander Tucker just claimed it was funny. So in typical Starfleet fashion, they'd been bundled together, and shipped out when Captain Archer insisted on Trip as his chief engineer. _I wonder if you realised what you were getting, Captain_.

A glance over at Phlox told him that the doctor was getting suspicious and impatient. "Right. So… how much more do we need, here?"

"Well… the bio-bed would be a good start. How much do you trust Commander Tucker?"

"More than I trust myself," Malcolm stated, firmly.

"All right." Torey seemed to accept that as being satisfactory. "Get him up here then… and have him dismantle this bed and move it down to the Armoury… no, better yet, your little stash point. We'll set up operations there… the less people who know where we are, the better. _And_ we can use the storage lockers to contain the evidence."

_And that will make Commander Tucker's day_. "He'll be glad to assist us… provided _I_ do the asking. He's just as likely to tell you to go to hell." Even if it _did_ mean missing out on being a part of the investigation… if there was one thing bigger than Trip's curiosity, it was his pride.

Torey took another look around the Sickbay, her face returning to its usual moody expression. "Right under my fucking nose. This is getting personal."

_Just don't be like that coyote_. The last thing he wanted was for her to get so caught up in her chase, and run right off of a cliff. _Because I'm not sure that you'd survive that particular landing._


	5. The Thin White Line

Disclaimer: I do not own _Enterprise_ or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only, I make no money from these works.

Author's note: Thanks for the reviews, and sorry it's been so long between updates on this. I haven't abandoned it, I've just been really, really writer's blocked on it.

Actually, Starwind, 'Horsemen' is a term I picked up while doing volunteer work _with_ the RCMP (if you're interested in doing that, and are 19 with no criminal record, check out your local Community Policing Access Centre (CPAC). It really is a great place to get some valuable experience, even if you don't plan to enter the Law Enforcement field). It is a term usually used by other law enforcement agencies (for example the Vancouver Police Department), to refer to the RCMP, but is occasionally used by Members – they're not generally officers, but Members of the force – themselves. While 'Mounties' is the more common colloquial term (especially among the general public), 'Horsemen' is used quite commonly in the Law Enforcement field, perhaps most famously and publicly by Larry Campbell, former City Coroner and now Mayor of Vancouver, though it was quite common in one of my criminology courses as well – the instructor's husband is a Downtown Eastside Vancouver beat patrol officer, and we often had visits from members of various police forces. (Might I also recommend the excellent documentary 'Through A Blue Lens' to anyone who might be interested in the issues involving one of Vancouver's most notorious districts. It was actually filmed by the 'Downtown Eastside' officers).

Sorry about the long explanation, but I wanted it to be clear that my decision to use the term was not taken lightly, and I am not intending to insult anyone by getting defensive, but rather to explain how I decided to include the information in question. I do – normally – appreciate corrections such as that, it's just that this is one of the rare times I've had information from outside the normally available circles. (Also, if you include a way for me to contact you, I _can_ get back to you more quickly to answer any questions you may have).

Chapter 5: The Thin White Line

"So… how did you convince the 'Wicked Witch of the West' I could be trusted?" Trip leaned over and spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"Actually, it was her idea." Malcolm pretended not to look at Trip, but allowed himself a moment of enjoyment at the engineer's shock. _I'll bet that was the _last_ thing you expected._ "I convinced her you were too basically stupid to pull this off."

"Well as long as you were only commenting on my _basic_ stupidity. I don't know how you can stand it, Mal. And before you bring up Hess – she _is_ smarter than anyone else around here… and she _doesn't_ go rubbing it in everyone's face."

"T… Ensign Holley doesn't either." He nearly said Torey, but caught himself in time. The last thing he needed right now was for Trip to start hassling him on that point.

Trip raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"She's not saying she's smarter. She just knows more on the topic. And this is a very stressful situation for all of us. Just because she's dealt with it more doesn't mean that she doesn't experience the same amount of horror as the rest of us." He didn't feel like adding in the details. "And she _is_ letting you in on this… which _does_ seem to be what you wanted."

"I don't like sitting on my hands," Trip admitted. He picked up another piece of the bio-bed and ran his scanner over it. "So far there doesn't seem to be a hardware problem… which means it's probably in the programming. I'm okay with software… but I know somebody who's better."

"Do what you can, first," Malcolm advised. "We're trying to keep the number of people directly involved with this to a minimum. The gossip mill is bad enough as it is… we don't need more tidbits getting back to whomever is responsible. Worse yet, since we haven't eliminated _anybody_…" he made sure to emphasise the last word – Trip _could_ get rather eager and talkative at times, "if the killer gets access to the evidence…"

"You mean the… the ensign is a suspect?" Trip's lips twitched like he was trying not to smile.

"I damn well better be." Both men jumped as Torey entered the conversation. "_Despite_ my security clearance."

"Well, you would be the best equipped to pull something off." And Trip said _Torey_ had trouble with basic civility. "After all, you do know more about this than anybody else."

"With the exception of the substances used. Lieutenant Reed seems to have an advantage over me there."

Now Trip did let the smile appear. "Malcolm. You've been holding out on me. I never knew you were an expert in pharmaceuticals."

"Hardly pharmaceuticals, Commander. More along the lines of toxic substances. They've been part of the history of warfare since there's _been_ a history of warfare." Not to mention that a number of them were highly addictive substances. Scary, really, when you thought about it. _Seems like an evolutionary flaw… that we can become hooked on so many deadly things_. Even alcohol – common as it was – could be deadly in the right amounts, or over a long enough period of time. Then again, maybe it did feed in to 'survival of the fittest.' Those of the species smart enough to avoid such things…

_Aren't always the ones who reproduce_. And didn't the evidence point toward addiction – or at the very least the tendency _towards_ addiction – as being hereditary? Suddenly Malcolm's lack of offspring in that alternate future didn't seem like an entirely bad thing at all. _After all, God only knows what disadvantages I'd start them out with_.

"You all right, Mal?" Trip's voice cut into his musings.

Malcolm looked down and saw his hands shaking, just slightly. "Craving. It'll disappear. Excuse me." He stepped back and tried not to look like he was looking for a place to disappear to, himself.

"I still have a bucket of water," Trip called after him, as he headed off among the crates. "Don't make me come over there and use it."

"Bucket of water?" Torey sounded confused.

"He keeps setting himself on fire." The way Trip raised his voice, it was clear he wanted Malcolm to hear the conversation. "At least that's what smoke means in _my_ experience. And being the conscientious person that I am…"

"Being the complete asshole that he is," Malcolm shouted back.

"Does it work?" Torey caught on quickly.

"Apparently not," Trip admitted, as Malcolm leaned around the corner and pointedly struck a match. "Some people need remedial training."

_You wouldn't dare_. Still, Malcolm inhaled quickly, wanting to get as much of it consumed as he could before the Mother Hen pulled something. He heard a rattle from Trip's direction and tried to ignore it.

"Fuck!" He screamed as water and bits of ice poured off his head and down his uniform, some of it working its way inside. "You bastard!"

"I warned you." Trip finished by dropping the bucket itself over Malcolm's head and knocking on it with his fist. "Why is it that you never listen to me?"

"Because maybe I keep hoping one day you'll wake up with a brain."

"I'm not _that_ Scarecrow." Trip laughed maniacally at Malcolm's look of confusion.

"_Batman_." Torey supplied. "Scarecrow used fear and intimidation to control his victims. Not to mention the fact that he was a tall, skinny-ass loser with lousy social skills."

"Watch it." Trip's face darkened.

"You brought it up," Torey told him mildly. "I'm merely confirming that the label fits." She leaned against one of the containers. "Except, of course, the fear and intimidation part."

"Children," Malcolm figured he'd better step in before it got bloody. "Either play nice, or I'm sending you to the corner." Why else he felt the need to stop it, he wasn't sure, except for the lingering, involuntary jealousy he always felt. _And you're not even aware that you do it, are you?_ Probably not. If Trip knew that whenever it was the two of them 'out on the town,' Malcolm always found himself with whomever was 'left over' after Trip had made his choice… well, Trip would probably fall all over himself to stop it from happening – which would only make things worse.

"Know-it-all, bitch." Malcolm barely caught Trip's mutter as the Southerner turned away, but he could tell from Torey's face that she heard him clearly.

Malcolm stepped in and spoke softly to Torey. "That is a sensitive point with him, you know."

"What? King of the Comic Book/Movie Trivia? It's not all that impressive, really."

"Actually, that's _not_ it." Not that he expected her to believe the truth – if it hadn't been for that time on Shuttlepod One, he wouldn't believe it either. But despite his success at _appearing_ confident, Trip didn't deep down believe that he was an important, or even a good person at all. That was the reason he took every slight personally, because to him they were _real_, and somehow more valid than a compliment. _King of Illusions, maybe_._ People wonder how two people so opposite can be friends… but it's because we're not opposite at all._ Trip had just come up with the more ingenious solution. Nobody ever guessed how private he kept himself, because he projected the image of being laid bare for the world to see.

_But all they see is a caricature – a comic-book/movie character with as much dimension as a line. Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. But you don't need to point a phase pistol at somebody confident just to get them not to kill themselves_. Out of the entire crew, only Captain Archer and Lieutenant Hess knew more about that vulnerability, which was one of the reasons they were so damn protective of him. _We're not friends, we're a cult_. What was the line from that song? 'Everybody needs their kryptonite?' Trip just hid his demons well.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what Mr. Sensitive's problem is, so I can avoid it in the future." There was no missing the sarcasm in Torey's voice; she was _not_ a member of the cult.

"That he _is_ sensitive. You might think he doesn't care about people, but he does. A _lot_." He leaned closer and lowered his voice further, though his tone left no doubt that what he was saying did _not_ fall into the realm of common gossip. Malcolm hadn't even told _Archer_ all the details of what happened on that Shuttlepod – he felt Trip needed to keep his dignity. "You want to know why we're friends? Because I found out that there are people out there more screwed up than I am, and he's one of them. You think I don't know what it's like to have a friend who can be suicidal? Try again, Ensign. People joke about him having no survival instincts, but it's true. He actually doesn't give a damn about his own life – someone else's is always more important."

"The true hero."

"No." Malcolm fought down the urge to smack her. "Not because he's a hero, but because when it comes down to himself, he really doesn't think there's something there worth saving. Half the time, I think he's still alive simply because the rest of us want him to be, and he doesn't want to disappoint us." Trip had been so shocked when Malcolm stepped in to save him, as though it was impossible someone would even undertake that small effort to save his life. "Don't take away what little things he has." That was the other reason he couldn't see Trip as their killer: these didn't seem to be his style. Malcolm didn't harbour any illusions about his friend's _capacity_ to kill, or even to commit premeditated murder, but from what they could tell, there was no passion to these kills. If Trip murdered somebody, it would be to send a message, and a very clear one at that.

Torey fell silent for a moment, studying him "Has anyone ever told you that you might have a natural talent for profiling?"

Malcolm blinked. "Profiling?" The comment seemed to have come from nowhere.

"It's a trick. I can't do it. There's too many little things to keep track of, and not all of them are quantifiable. But certain types of people _do_ commit certain types of crimes. The trick is looking at the crime and figuring out what type of person would commit it, then narrowing your subject pool to people with those qualities. Most times, though, people don't recognise the signs. Most serial killers are described by their neighbours as 'nice, normal, quiet guys.' Ted Bundy actually worked a fucking suicide crisis line… and he was apparently _good_ at it."

_It sounds like your problem is that it requires empathy_. His anger was fading, though, so he didn't say it aloud. After all, Torey had a lot of reasons _not_ to have empathy. Because empathy could lead to sympathy, and therein lay madness. "Thank you for admitting I have _some_ useful talent, Ensign."

"Careful, though." She seemed to grow distant. "It's dangerous. The best profilers learn to think from a killer's perspective. Nietzsche was right there: sometimes the Abyss _does_ look back."

_Do you know that from experience?_ He didn't dare ask aloud though, half afraid that she might give him an answer. _After all, what _is_ your monster, Ensign?_ "Don't worry about me on that front, Ensign. Been there, done that, taken the guilt trip afterwards. Captain might have given the order, but remember, I _am_ the one who fired the torpedoes." He left her contemplating that, and headed back over to Trip.

"She's wrong, you know." Trip spoke softly, looking at Torey as though she was a spy. "He's not a drunk."

"Excuse me?" Malcolm knew who Trip must mean, but it seemed strange – like Torey, Trip was pulling comments out of nowhere.

"Jon. He's not a drunk. I've lived with it too… Ms. Merry Sunshine isn't the only one who knows the symptoms." Trip chewed on his lip, though, from him an indicator that he wasn't telling the whole truth.

"I never…"

"Hey. Just because you love someone doesn't mean that they don't have flaws." Trip tapped his hand against his leg, nervously. "I mean, she made great peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and she always made sure we got off to school in the morning… but there were days when you could count on her not being able to pick you up. And… and we always called first if a friend wanted to come over after school, because that's not something you want your friends to have to see. So, yeah, Malcolm, I know what it's like – I'm not naïve enough to say it doesn't happen – but I _do_ know Jon, and I know that's not his problem."

_Another Trip secret that nobody knows_. No wonder sometimes Trip's depictions of his past were so small and vague. Yet it explained a lot: his protective streak for one. Even though he never indicated his mother was violent… it would still be something to shield his younger siblings from. _And I'll bet you took care of _her_, too_. It showed in his ability to accept so many flaws in people – his ability to shrug off a deep dark secret as 'just another thing.' _And to think I used to be envious of that talent_.

"I'm sorry."

Trip shrugged. "Nothing you can be sorry for, Mal. Sometimes I think I'm headed in the same way. But not Jon." He shook his head, staring off into space. "Not Jon." He blinked suddenly, and looked thoughtfully at Malcolm. "How _do_ you know so much about poisons, anyway?"

"Suffice it to say, you're not the only one with a strange family."

"Any resource ideas? 'Cause I should probably try an' keep up with you guys if I'm 'sposed to be helping you." The second sentence came out almost too fast, like an excuse. Malcolm felt a sudden chill.

_No, you wouldn't kill someone for _you_. But you'd risk your own neck to protect someone else's wouldn't you? Especially if you thought _they'd_ done something._ The question was, which 'cult member' was it? It could only be someone Trip was close to, because he _did_ have some sense of propriety and justice – even if it could be skewed at times. _Surely you don't think it's me…even if I do know more about poisons than the average person._ Which pretty much left Hess and the captain. Again, these crimes didn't seem like Hess' work – she was brilliant, but tended to act on the spur of the moment rather than plan. Which left Archer.

_I do _not_ want to believe that he's been killing off members of his own crew… no matter what kind of stress he's been under._ His own choice of words worried him however. Not 'I can't believe' but 'I don't want to believe.' _I don't have ultimate faith, either_.

"Once you have eliminated the impossible…" Malcolm whispered it under his breath. Of course just because _Trip_ believed it was possible, didn't mean that it was the truth. How many people did stupid things because they _thought_ they needed to protect someone who didn't really need protecting? _Too many to count_. Besides, he didn't even know for sure that Trip _did_ suspect Archer of anything.

_Well, yes, I do… because the _only_ reason Trip would mention something like his mother being an alcoholic would be to send me off somewhere else. Because Trip doesn't say things like that, he's always presented the 'happy family' image in the little things he's told us._ Another memory flickered in from Shuttlepod One, Trip's stubborn refusal to write any letters home. _I doubt it was simply because you were trying to convince me that we weren't going to die_. No… Trip probably knew that part before Malcolm had, and had just reflexively fought against giving up. But he'd written letters to nobody, not his sister, not his brother, not his parents – almost as though he'd had no one to write to. True, he'd gone nearly insane with the news of Elizabeth's death, but hadn't Malcolm read somewhere that such a thing was _common_ among families with unresolved issues and a lack of ability to communicate?

Malcolm took a step backward and looked over at Torey and back at Trip. _Profiling, is it?_ Well, there did seem to be some commonalities, even if they dealt with it in different ways. _A lack of desire for sympathy_. Torey was so hard-nosed and hard-headed about things that people had trouble mustering _any_ kind of sympathy for her, and Trip rarely gave people things to feel sympathetic about. _I'll bet even Captain Archer doesn't know about your mother_.

_Or how about a need to take on a 'caretaker' role?_ For Torey it was law-enforcement and protecting the weak from the predators. Whereas Trip took the 'mother' route, fussing over people when they were sick or injured, and doing his best to be sure that he could bandage the wounds when they fell down and skinned their knees. Then again, Torey had grown up needing to protect _herself_ from a predator, while Trip had been forced to take on that mothering role when the person who should have been doing it sequestered herself in a bottle. Wasn't that something else the scientists had tracked down? That among men it was generally 'fight or flight,' but among women it tended to be 'protect or nurture.' What if that response wasn't entirely biological, however? Because these two did seem to have it backwards, but if Torey had only ever known a male caretaker and Trip had been forced to take on the role of a female one… _Just call me Malcolm Reed, amateur psychologist._

In fact, looking at it… Trip's response to his sister's death _had_ been more in line with a parent losing a child, than a brother losing a sister. _Every little fact explains a little bit more_.

"Is there a problem, sir?" Torey seemed more aware than Trip that she was being watched.

"No… no… just seeing if I can work on some of this profiling you mentioned."

She gave him an odd look, but said nothing. He nearly smiled. _Just call me Malcolm Reed, natural oddity._

* * *

He woke to emergency alarms, and threw himself out of bed, not even bothering to get dressed. _It's not the first time I've been seen in the halls in my underwear lately._ At least this time he had a decent excuse. 

The computer read-out identified it as a fire alarm in – of all places – the botany lab. Sighing, he took off at a jog, wondering what had happened in there _this_ time. Black smoke still billowed from the doors as he approached – it appeared as though the extinguishers hadn't functioned properly.

People milled around in various stages of dress, muttering nervously.

"What the hell is going _on_ here?" Archer grabbed Malcolm's arm. "Has somebody got a grudge against plants or something?"

"Sir?" As he pried the captain's hand away, Malcolm noted that the other man was sweating. He also looked like he'd been in there, either fighting the blaze, or helping rescue specimens.

"I just got here, sir. Why didn't the extinguishers take care of it?" Something about the air here seemed to be muddling his thought processes.

"I don't know." Archer sounded more agitated than usual. "I'm going to have Trip take a look at them. In the meantime, I think this one falls to you and Ensign Holley. I assigned you to _stop_ the crime spree on this ship, Malcolm, not encourage it."

_Right, right_. Right now, however, the problem seemed to be crowd control. "If you could please return to your quarters or your stations… the situation is under control here; there is no danger to the rest of the ship." He coughed as another gust of smoke came through the doors. _Ironic, that: you of all people choking on smoke_. "We'll let you know what happened as soon as we know."

"Come on, sir… I'm going to need your help on this." Torey's hand landed on his shoulder, and Malcolm winced. _She_ was fully dressed, and had even taken the time to grab her evidence kit.

"Aren't I allowed to put a uniform on, first?" He tried for sarcasm, even as he knew it would be useless.

Torey shook her head. "No time. Evidence disappears quickly after a fire, and you'll be able to log it for me, even if you're not well set up to collect it."

"Right." He suppressed a sigh. _She has – after all – seen worse_.

They were about half-way through their initial survey when Trip joined them.

"Hands off, Commander," Torey warned. "I don't want you touching anything."

"Do you mind if I use a scanner to do a diagnostic? Captain _does_ want me to figure out why these extinguishers never kicked in. I don't think it's a system-wide problem… but not every department keeps their Health and Safety inspections up to date."

_Right… and that's one of the committees you sit on_. People laughed at that: one of the top members of the H&S committee tended to be one of the people who ended up in Sickbay the most. "Let me guess… botany is a problem."

"In some areas," Trip confirmed. "Like regularly scheduled tests and drills. Maintenance."

"I'd like a look at those logs, Commander." Torey regarded Trip with a new light in her eyes.

Trip didn't even turn around. "Sure… it's not like they're restricted. OSHA doesn't let us… and, while we may be an international vessel in deep space, they've still got some say in how we run things. Frankly… given Starfleet's track-record in the area, it's pretty damn good that they do."

"Commander, you're _responsible_ for a good portion of Starfleet's track-record in the area." Malcolm wasn't sure why he felt the need to argue with Trip, except that he was irritated and the engineer was sounding a little too distracted. For one thing, he hadn't made a single remark about Malcolm's mode of dress.

"I keep a good Engineering, Malcolm… but there's only so much you can do when you're a Lieutenant and your captain won't pick up things. Captain Jeffries built shrines to occupational hazards. Which is one of the reasons I got onto the committee in the first place."

"Founded it, more like." Malcolm muttered. He hadn't even _heard_ of Occupational Health and Safety until Enterprise was halfway built, and suddenly teams of bureaucrats started doing monthly walkthroughs and pointing out all the problems.

"I'll admit, they weren't very active until I got in there… but I've got enough coordination problems without somebody building a labyrinth of spare parts on the floor. Besides, I thought you – of all people – would have an appreciation for the protection of life and limb."

"I _don't_ have an appreciation for extra memos and meetings – or someone with a suit and a clipboard telling me how I'm supposed to build a torpedo launcher." Though, he had to admit, it did tie in with the new vision of Trip as a 'concerned mother.' _Wanting to make sure that the kiddies are protected_. What _was_ interesting was how Sim had mentioned none of Trip's issues, either. He had the memories… and he must have somehow known that he wasn't supposed to tell.

_Come to think of it, _that_ little bastard was pretty close-mouthed, too_. Of course, at the time, Malcolm hadn't thought to ask – respecting Trip's privacy instead. The kid _had_ pulled the same deflection techniques, though… hadn't he added some happy anecdotes of his own? But it was always just _incidents_, just the way Trip did – bits and pieces that, when it came down to it, told you nothing. Oh well, he had another source to try on that – he just had to make sure he convinced them that he was trying to help.

* * *

Malcolm took a deep breath and pressed the door buzzer. Torey'd finally finished collecting her evidence, so her need for a secretary had vanished. Malcolm had gratefully escaped and returned to his quarters for his morning ritual – reworked as it was to add the new step – and now prepared himself for battle. This was worse than dealing with a Klingon, or an Andorian, or even an insane Xindi reptilian. This was… 

The door hissed open. "Malcolm. What do you want?"

… a lawyer. Not only that, but a founding member of the Cult of Tucker, and rather irrational when it came down to things like that.

"Can we speak…" he cleared his throat nervously, "… inside?" He'd heard nearly every rumour Torey had mentioned the other day, and knew that every time he and Hess spoke it added more gunpowder to the load. At least right now she wasn't _too_ outrageously dressed – some of her clothing had been purposely torn and worn out. At least this was an actual T-shirt – sometimes he'd swear she was wearing just lingerie – and the skirt reached down to the knee.

"Sure, Malcolm." She stepped aside to let him past. "I didn't know you _could_ talk to me… given the nature of our respective tasks, and all."

"Don't police officers and attorneys speak all the time?" At the same time, her training was in _American_ law, and the procedures could be quite different.

Her eyebrows rose, telling him that she was having trouble believing it could be as simple as that.

"Erm… yes…" How to put this… "You know Commander Tucker fairly well, right?"

She raised her hand and turned her head away. "No way, Lieutenant. You _know_ I can't discuss anything like that. _Especially_ not now, and _especially_ not with you." Of course not – out of everyone, Hess would know best that Trip remained an obvious suspect, and she was his lawyer after all.

"How much do you know about his family?" He rushed it out, so she wouldn't have a chance to interrupt.

Her hackles dropped a little, but not entirely. "Some… where is this going, Malcolm?"

"How much do you know about his mother?"

She walked over to the bed and sat down, not looking at him. "You're probably right, Malcolm… he probably doesn't want you looking at something else."

_I didn't say that_. Then again, he probably didn't need to say it. If _anyone_ knew Commander Tucker – more than Malcolm, more even than Captain Archer – it was Hess, his partner in crime, his confessor, his surrogate sister. "So he doesn't talk about her a lot."

"Once or twice he's mentioned a few things… I can't tell you because I'm sworn not to, and it's unreliable testimony anyway…"

_In other words, he couldn't even tell _you_ without being drunk._ Even when he couldn't walk, even then he could never let go of all of his sorrows. Oh, they'd catch up to him then –Malcolm had seen enough evidence of that – but Trip would just gather them up and hold them close so none of them would get away. _Protecting them_. _Playing mother_.

"He told me that Captain Archer hasn't been drinking… even though everyone else says that there's _something_ going on with the man." He sat down in the desk chair, unable to remain standing. Besides, this wasn't an interrogation, he didn't need any implications of power imbalance. This was a sharing, a mutual interest in helping a friend. Or maybe a confession of his own, to cleanse his troubled soul. "Even _I_ know there's something. He's been out of character lately, and I know Trip can worry, but he usually doesn't worry _this_ much for no reason."

Hess shook her head. "He hasn't told me anything, either. Whatever it is, he wants to handle it himself. Which probably isn't smart…"

_But it's empathetic._ Trip's 'kryptonite' wasn't what he thought it was: it wasn't a predisposition to drink. In fact, if he needed to, Trip could probably abandon any pretence towards rebellion and actually live a life more suited to a monk. _But don't ask him not to care_.

Hess studied him, trying to read his face. "Something interesting happened today, didn't it?"

_Like you didn't know_. Hess was as well-connected as Trip, if not more. Then he realised that she'd never expect him to be that stupid, that in a roundabout way she was trying to tell him something, probably something she couldn't tell him directly.

"There was a fire in botany," he confirmed, cautiously.

"Wow. Someone got a grudge against plants?" She _appeared_ to be acting innocent, which was another big clue.

"You know, Captain Archer asked me the exact same thing." He realised how to play this game now: neither one of them could acknowledge that they knew or suspected anything. He had enough to get started on, and better it was only one person to betray trust than two.

"Okay, there is something wrong if he and I are thinking alike. Check with Phlox to see if his brain was stolen by aliens." She stood up as Malcolm did, and walked him to the door.

As the door slid open, she put a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, and Malcolm?"

"Yes?" He turned to look at her, puzzled.

"You really might want to consider giving those things up. It's not like you don't know you can do it, and we're all here for you if you need us."

"What things?" After all, any lingering smoke smell _could_ be blamed on the fire. And he didn't see Trip as being the tattle-tale, even to Hess.

She stood up on her toes and kissed him behind the ear, the way a mother might with a small child. "I think you know what things I'm talking about, Malcolm. They're really not that good for you, and they can do such horrible things to your skin and your teeth and your breath. And you've already got enough problems when it comes to breathing, why do you need to give yourself more?" She tapped him on the chest, and her eyes were serious. "The Boy's worried about you, too. So…" she clasped her hands together as though in prayer or supplication.

"Right." Trust Hess to use cult affiliations to try for a commitment. How many people misunderstood her nickname for the commander? But the way she used it… to her Commander Tucker was like Evil Thing from the Great Beyond, or Igor, or Porthos sometimes, even… just another helpless creature in need of protection. _And now I've become that, too_. He decided to go for at least some semblance of honesty, even if it was only to the squirrel. "Just… not right now." After all, as every addict knew, there was always later to kick the habit. Or as the honest man said: _Yeah, right._

_

* * *

_

* * *

A/N2: The song quote by Malcolm in this chapter _actually_ reads… 'I guess Superman was right, _some people_ need their kryptonite, gotta have something to take them away.' It's from 'Thin White Line' by Trooper, and thematically the song _does_ touch on many of the same things as in this story, which is one of the reasons I used it for the chapter title. It's one of the saddest songs I've ever heard. 


	6. Madness

Disclaimer: I own neither _Enterprise_ nor its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Sorry about the long wait, like I said, this one's a little harder for me… mostly because of the type of tale it is. And I've been getting a little busier lately. But thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read and review (especially all the repeats), it's really quite encouraging. And a huge round of thanks to my beta readers: gaianarchy, silvershadowfire and kate98. I hope you enjoy.

**Chapter 6: Madness**

Malcolm made his way back to the investigation team's headquarters, re-running his conversation with Hess as he walked. _She_ brought up the fire, but he doubted it was a fishing expedition on her part. After all, if Hess was chasing down information, she could probably find better sources than him. So, she definitely was trying to tell him something. _But what?_

Perhaps it would help to look at what she _didn't_ say, instead. _After all, isn't that how she gets away with most things?_ Someone in Hess' position would never take a chance on false accusations, but maybe a lack of denial could be taken as confirmation. _Like my opinion that Captain Archer has a problem_. How had she put it? That _Trip_ hadn't told her anything? Or maybe that he hadn't _told_ her anything… maybe she had opinions of her own on the matter. _And you followed that up with a question about the fire_. A not-so-subtle linking of events? He thought back to Captain Archer's behaviour during the fire. He'd been agitated, almost angry. _Or afraid._ But of what? The idea of Captain Archer as an arsonist sat about as well as the idea of him as a murderer.

_Then again, how well do you know him?_ Better than when they started out, but not by much. He'd rebuffed as many invitations to breakfast or dinner as he thought he could get away with – most of his information about Captain Archer's private life came from second and third hand sources. And hadn't Torey mentioned something about serial killers and their ability to blend in? '_Ted Bundy worked a suicide line?_' He'd done some research himself – Bundy wasn't the only 'angel' on the list.

_What were you just saying about false accusations?_ Not to mention the fact that he was hardly qualified to diagnose anybody of being anything. Anyway, from what he'd been able to find, Captain Archer displayed very few of the attributes of a psychopath. He remembered a warning from a psychology class he'd taken back at the academy. The professor cautioned his students against making _any_ kind of judgements based on the materials they read.

_"Any person," he advised them, "can show any number of traits indicating any number of mental illnesses at any time." Suddenly he rounded on Malcolm. "You, for example, Mr. Reed could be classified as overly paranoid."_

_The class laughed – already he had a reputation._

_"Have you ever thought that somebody wanted to kill you?"_

_Malcolm nodded._

_"Have you ever felt that you were being followed?"_

_Again, he couldn't deny it._

_"Have you ever thought that people were lying to you or were saying things about you behind your back?"_

_"Of course." He finally spoke, irritated. Before he could elaborate, the instructor interrupted._

_"Has someone ever _tried_ to kill you?"_

_Malcolm coughed, suddenly uncertain. "I don't know if they were trying to _kill_ me, but…"_

_"You've been attacked."_

_"Yes."_

_"Have you ever _been_ followed? Stalked?"_

_"Yes." It happened back at school all the time. Generally ending in a beating in some out-of-the-way corner._

_"Have you been lied to frequently?"_

_"Quite." 'I love you' was the best one, followed close behind by 'trust me,' and 'I'm on your side.' He'd learned early on not to believe any of those._

_"I believe I myself can confirm that people have said things about you, while out of earshot." Suddenly the rest of the class looked very uncomfortable._

_"Do you believe that anyone is trying to kill you now?"_

_"Right this minute? No."_

_"Your roommate isn't trying to poison your food? Put glass into your toothpaste? Strangle you in your sleep?"_

_"I certainly hope not." He spoke dryly, then regretted it – how many people recognised a joke when they heard it, especially among Americans?_

_"So do I, Mr. Reed, or we have a greater problem than your possible paranoia on our hands." The professor responded in kind, then turned to the rest of the class._

_"Thus, the question becomes: though Mr. Reed shows many of the symptoms of a paranoid individual – he has episodes of believing he's been followed, that people have wanted to kill him, or that they're saying 'nasty things' behind his back – _is_ he actually paranoid? Or is he merely exhibiting a level of caution commensurate with his past experience?"_

Unfortunately, the lecture hadn't spread to anyone outside the classroom. _They still call me paranoid_. Even when circumstances proved him right – nobody wanted to believe that it was anything more than coincidence.

He froze in mid-step. What if that was it? What if the reason they couldn't find a link between events was because there _was_ no logical link, at least not to a sane person. After all, didn't somebody say that Van Gogh's cutting off his own ear was a completely logical act once you took into account his mental illness and the fact that he wanted to stop hearing the voices? _Well, assuming paranoia, why would you kill somebody_? The easy answer: you thought that someone was going to kill you. _A pre-emptive strike could be considered self defence if you were truly in fear for your life._ It didn't matter whether or not the threat was real or imagined… if the killer _believed_ it to be real…

"Except we _do_ have a connection." Torey didn't seem to impressed when he laid out his theory to her. "George dies and Styles finds the body. Then Styles is the next to go. We start closing in on an organic connection with the poisons, so someone torches the botany bay. Simple."

"Botany _lab_," he corrected her. "Botany _Bay_ was the penal colony."

"Yeah, funny how England shipped people off, and they formed better countries." Torey didn't look up as she spoke.

"Excuse me?"

"England got rid of all its criminals, and they formed bigger, better countries. Australia… Canada…"

"What? No America?" He said it as nastily as he could.

"I said _better_."

An ellipse-shaped foam ball came flying across the room and hit Torey in the head. She caught it as it rebounded and placed it on the desk, but otherwise seemed to ignore it.

"Bigger and better than anything else." Trip leaned casually against the cargo container that held the cigarettes. "We were a superpower, and what were you?"

"A country that people actually wanted to live in? A country that didn't go to war every time it disagreed with something?" Now Torey did look up, challenging.

"A country that didn't have the _backbone_ to do anything?" Trip met the stare head on.

"A country that actually cared about international _law_?"

"A country that couldn't even defend _itself_? By the early twenty-first century, your military was so decimated that you couldn't defend a small _island_, let alone…" Trip paused, his mouth leading him places his brain hadn't checked out yet.

"202,080 kilometres of coastline," Malcolm supplied. "Now knock it off, both of you. I'm supposed to be the military historian around here. I'm glad you two weren't on the negotiating committee, otherwise we wouldn't have a united world government. We'd still be waging a battle royal over Alaska." The two of them were acting like children. "Now either play nice, or you won't be able to play together at all."

Torey muttered something that Malcolm couldn't make out, and Trip stared at him with a hurt expression.

"Did you just give me an order? Tell me what to do?" Commander asked Lieutenant, disbelief in his voice.

"Yes."

"Oh," Trip blinked, hurt turning to confusion, then acceptance. "Okay, just checking." He glanced at Malcolm's insignia, then his own, and shook his head. "Just… checking." There was another pause, before he cocked his head and looked at Malcolm intently. "Are you sure you're still Malcolm Reed?"

"Get out of here." Malcolm snatched the ball from Torey's desk and threw it straight at Trip. "Before I arrest you for unauthorised possession of ballistic missiles." Trip left, laughing. At least he was easy to deal with.

"Well, it was you guys who screwed us out of Alaska," Torey muttered. She didn't sound as angry and defensive about it though.

"Yes, well unfortunately, a real-estate exchange from several centuries ago probably doesn't have much bearing on this case." He felt a little insulted, himself. She had, after all, just crushed what he'd thought was a brilliant idea.

_Occam's Razor_. He reminded himself. Her theory _was_ the simpler one, which made it more likely to be the true one.

"Sir… do you want to do me a favour, and check that crate?" Torey looked up from her work and glanced over at the crate Trip had just been leaning on.

"What about it?" It didn't look disturbed – the lock indicated that it was untouched.

"Just…" she sounded frustrated at his question, clearly not ready to divulge her solution until she had more evidence.

"Fine." He punched in the code and opened it, throwing the lid back. "Oh, fuck."

"There's some missing, isn't there?"

"Yes." They hadn't even bothered to hide it, maybe thinking that if they bypassed the lock then nobody would check. Or maybe they'd been in a hurry, but still… one carton lay turned over, and a second pack was missing. It would have taken someone highly skilled to get past that lock – someone with an intimate knowledge of security systems and a lot of practice in going around them. "How did you know?"

"I've isolated our trigger." Torey answered. "_Very_ old-school. Delay fuse, they stuck a cigarette in a matchbook, essentially. Well, a little more complicated than that, but it's simple, elegant and low tech – especially if some of the sensors weren't working properly and weren't able to pick up the change in heat until it was too late."

_And how many people would think of that?_ How many people were that versed in the latest technology, but still had a grasp of the simplest of things? How many modern systems geniuses collected antiques, and knew how they worked? Hess' hints prodded at him, pointing him towards a single suspect.

He picked up a list of the plants destroyed. None of it made sense – most of them were harmless, so why would the killer do something like this? He – or she – would have to know that it would heighten security around an already suspiciously regarded botany lab, so…

One name leapt out at him, and he had to fight not to react. _I need more evidence_. If he was right, though, it explained everything. But if he was wrong… _I can't go running around making accusations like that_. Suspicion wasn't enough, he needed proof – and enough proof that it couldn't be shouted down and denied.

He glanced over at Torey. Had she seen this, yet? If so, had she made the connection? He doubted it – she'd be too eager to see this through. He looked down at the padd, loyalty warring with reason. So much damage could be done with this, but if they could catch a killer…

He saved the data directly to the padd, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he accessed the main computer and re-opened the file, eliminating a single line before downloading the altered information to a new padd, and slipping it into the stack on the desk. He prayed he'd made the right choice, if not ethically, then morally.

"Security!" A voice screamed through the comm, filled with panic. "We need you in C-60… hurry!" Other voices hollered in the background, but Malcolm didn't even wait to respond. He took off at a run, with Torey close behind. C-60, that was crew's-quarters.

By the time they got there, Phlox had already responded. He shook his head when he saw them, sadness all over his expressive face. A crowd of onlookers stared, muttering and shuffling nervously.

"Get these people the hell out of here," Torey growled, "but I don't want them going far. I want their clothes, I want everything they're carrying, and I want their DNA.

"We've…"

"I don't care if it's on file! I want it again." Rage cracked her public control.

Malcolm nodded, ignoring for now the dismissal of his authority. He knew how she felt, and why. This was becoming insane. "Who is it?" Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a couple of his men herd the watchers into a small area of the hallway and take up a guard.

"Crewman Zhou," Phlox supplied. "She worked under the quartermaster's authority…"

"Shit." Malcolm mumbled. What the hell was going on here? First, two engineers, and now a member of Supply. "If this keeps up, we won't have a crew."

"Well, it would narrow down our list of suspects considerably." Torey crouched, staring at Zhou's fingers. One of her fingernails had broken and something had snagged on the rough edge. "She fought back. And she's got us something." Torey reached in with a pair of tweezers and gently lifted a small piece of thread away, dropping it neatly into a plastic bag. "This is our best evidence, yet."

Malcolm nodded, looking away and hoping she'd take it as simple squeamishness. She worshiped evidence, and he'd tampered with her god, profaned the ritual. And he still didn't know if he was doing the right thing, or destroying any chance they had.

_Whichever way that could be taken_. If she found out, then any respect she might have for him would vanish instantly, he knew that. At the same time, what he'd seen was circumstantial at best, and could mean any number of things. _I just wish I could trust you with it_. But his own innate caution, and her stubbornness kept him silent. Mostly silent.

"So, do you still think there's a logical connection? Zhou wasn't an engineer, and wasn't anywhere near the scene with George. I don't see a connect with Botany either." He spoke softly, so only she would hear.

"That doesn't mean that there isn't one." She looked up, straight into his eyes. "It just means we have to look for one."

"Even if there is one, that doesn't mean that there's a motive in it. There are eighty-four… eighty-_one_ people on this ship now. Everybody's got to be connected in some way." He was vaguely aware that, perhaps, he shouldn't be telling her how to think, but she seemed so intently focused in one direction. From everything he'd read, that wasn't a good thing when you didn't have a suspect, but he also knew that there was almost always a large gap between theory and practice. Or maybe she did have a suspect, but just wouldn't tell Malcolm about it, for… for what? Fear of what his reaction might be? From what he could tell, fear wasn't in her vocabulary, at least not fear of people's opinions.

_No, that would be me_. That fear ran his life. Water and drowning weren't the real reasons he'd avoided the Navy; it was the knowledge that he'd always be 'Stuart Reed's boy' and have so much, maybe too much, to live up to. _Throw in the politics, and it's not something I was meant to tolerate._ "Oh well, at least we know one thing."

"Oh?" She looked surprised. Clearly she hadn't spotted the obvious.

"We know you didn't do it, and I didn't do it. Unless, of course, you don't trust me as an alibi." Maybe there was something sick about cracking jokes over a corpse, but the black humour was the only thing between him and hysteria.

Surprisingly, she smiled. "We'll make a pro out of you, yet."

"Yes, but in favour of what?" It took her a moment to get that one, and when she did, she merely shook her head.

"Puns. You're worse than I thought."

_Are we flirting over a dead body?_ If so, then he was worse than _he_ thought. _I'm getting used to this_. That thought scared him. When you lost your awe of death, what was to separate you from the monsters? _Only morality, and you've proved your willingness to bend that._ How long before 'for the good of mankind' became 'for the good of Malcolm Reed?'

_I wish I could say never_. But he knew he couldn't. Maybe at one point in his life he'd been naïve enough to believe that, but not anymore. _Maybe there is nothing between me and the monsters._

* * *

"Could you kill somebody?" Malcolm handed a cup of tea across the table, and sat down. It was an odd conversational opener, but he knew his companion wouldn't mind. And with her, he didn't need to be evasive. 

Hess sipped at the tea, then set it down. "Yes." She looked at him, clearly expecting more.

"I mean in cold blood." In self defence, he could see her killing easily. Anyone could do that, they'd be fools not to admit it. But thinking, and killing… He could have asked Torey, but had been afraid to awaken more of her ghosts. Instead, he went to the next best source: most of Hess' family was in law enforcement.

"Define cold blood." She smiled as he rolled his eyes. "I mean that, seriously. Do you mean calm, premeditation? Planned out?"

"I mean, could you kill somebody who wasn't attacking you?"

"Yes." She shook her head at his shocked expression. "If you want it bluntly, Malcolm, I'm from a family of professional killers."

He rocked back in his chair. "I thought you said your family was all…"

"Emergency Response Team. One of my brothers is a sniper, and my mother was too, for a while. The whole purpose of their job is to kill people. People they don't know, people they've never met. If that's the job, you do it."

"But that's different. There's still a threat there." He was pretty sure they didn't just go around shooting random targets. He'd be positive, but this _was_ Hess' family they were talking about.

"Not to them, at that particular moment. You can't just snap off a snipe shot, either; you've really got to think about it. And the target has no chance to fight back or save themselves. They don't even know it's coming." She reached over and tapped him on the hand. "You're worried about yourself, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?" This sensitive streak of hers was really beginning to worry him. It was one thing for her to be concerned about Trip, but this was something else entirely. He found himself waiting for the trap and the insult.

"I hear things." She waved a hand vaguely around her head. "You really freaked some people out today. Phlox, for one. And a couple of the guys in the hall heard you too."

He took a slow, deep breath. "You think it was inappropriate."

"I think you do. I'm a little different." She placed her elbows on the table in defiance of all etiquette and rested her chin in her hands. "It doesn't mean that you don't care. It's more… whistling past the graveyard. You're up close and personal with the big guy in the black cape, and you're trying not to think of how sharp that scythe is. We're all thinking the same thing: 'Thank God, it's not me.' The difference is, most of us aren't having to deal with it. Not on that level."

"So there's nothing wrong with me."

"Well, you dress funny and you look like some kid put you together out of spare parts. And that goofy face of yours doesn't do you any favours." She grinned. "Don't get me _started_ on your choice of reading materials…"

He relaxed, and allowed himself a smile of his own. "This from someone whose appearance has led her best friend, her _best friend_ mark you, to label her 'a psychotic little Tinkerbell,' not to mention those horrible sounds that you erroneously refer to as 'music.' And before you criticise my clothing, at least I've never paired a mini-skirt with engineering boots."

Hess started to laugh, falling forward onto the table as her arms collapsed. "I want to be there when you do. I want _pictures_. You would make the ugliest woman…"

"What? You don't think I have the legs for it?"

She laughed harder, pounding her hands on the table, and drawing people's attention. "Stop, please, stop. You're killing me. I can't breathe. No more. Stop." It took her a few more moments to regain control. "Oh, Malcolm, you are a sick, sick bastard. But you're okay." She stifled another giggle. "You're okay. At least if you don't put on a skirt."

"I do have a kilt," he challenged. "I could always decide to scare you."

She shook her head and put up her hands as though warding him away. "No… no. I've heard rumours about what goes underneath them…"

He grinned now. "Well…"

"No. I don't even want to think about it." Now she used her fingers to create a cross, definitely warding him away.

_Why is this so easy with you, and so hard with any other woman in the universe?_ Maybe because so much of Hess' behaviour marked her as 'one of the guys.' She'd been practically raised by her five brothers, and could fight, swear and shoot with the best of them. When it came down to it, there was nothing really _intimidating_ about her. _Aside from the fact that she could kill you with her bare hands_. And even that wasn't the same thing.

"Something else is bugging you though, isn't it?" She cocked her head to the side a bit, studying him.

He nearly said, but backed down. She had a responsibility to report something as serious as tampering with evidence. "No." The word came out too quick though.

"Malcolm." Her look turned serious. "Don't try and bullshit me, because I'm an expert. There's something bugging you, beyond just this 'sensitivity' thing."

"If… _when_ we catch this person," he took a deep breath, "you're the only lawyer around here, right? I mean… you'd automatically be…"

"Any ranking officer can serve as counsel in a tribunal," she answered without him even having to frame the question, "but in a murder case, an attorney is required." She smiled, reassuringly. "But it's highly unlikely that the trial would be held aboard _Enterprise_. We don't have a qualified judge, for one thing. I mean, this isn't like a disciplinary hearing because someone mouthed off. We're talking murder here. It has to be handled carefully, and by the book." She took a sip of her tea. "Why? Are you worried about me?"

"A little," he admitted, realising that he _was_. After all, behind the spikes and the attitude was the kind of sweet, sensitive person who fished rabbits out of dumpsters and played nursemaid to broken-hearted drunks. He didn't want her having to get into something like this. He didn't want to see her get hurt.

"Now that _is_ scary." She gave the impression of trying to hide behind her mug. "I think the Tin Man might be developing a heart."

"Maybe." That admission brought forth more laughter. That was another thing about her: it was hard to stay miserable while she was around. She took nothing seriously, or at least not too seriously. He didn't want to see her lose that. _I don't want you becoming like me_.

"Don't worry, I can probably find a way out of it. I usually do find a way out of things."

He laughed with her; _that_ was true, too. Nobody quite understood just how intelligent and charming she was until they looked at the amount of stuff she got away with.

She reached across and picked up his right hand. He was a little shocked, but then realised she was holding on to his fingers and inspecting his fingernails. They'd already begun to stain, he noticed. "This is what's really scary."

"I'll be fine. As soon as this is over with, I promise." He couldn't cross his fingers, so he crossed his toes instead.

"Right, because you haven't got a problem, and can quit any time you want."

He dropped his head, and his smile became tight and humourless. "You know the song and dance."

"Right down to the four-four timing," she agreed. "At least you're not wasting your time with the denials."

"Who, me?" He snorted. Then he looked up at her, slyly. "Are _you_ getting worried about _me_?"

"_Quid pro quo_. Anything you can do, I can do better." She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, the perfect picture of an annoying little sister.

_Though Madeline was never like this_. No, Madeline had been the perfect daughter. _He_ was the wayward son, but had no illusions that a homecoming would see him greeted as a prodigal returned. Madeline, if he thought of it rationally, was the kind of girl a boy brought home to impress his parents. Hess, in her normal mode, was the kind of girl you brought home to piss them off.

He looked up and saw Torey approaching across the room, and jerked his hand back. He could feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck. There were so many ways she could misinterpret this, and his vehement denials of a few days ago would do little in this light, but convince her that the rumours were true. _Has it really been only a few days?_ It seemed like so much longer than that.

"Sir. Ma'am." He could hear the chill in her tone, more than the usual blunt matter-of-factness. Hess caught it too, with her keen ear for nuance and looked back and forth between the two.

"Well," she stood up. "If I were you, I'd talk to Phlox about that, Malcolm. There's nothing wrong with asking for a little help." Hess nodded at Torey, and left.

"We were discussing the smoking." Malcolm gestured at the now empty chair. "If you're keeping track, Hess and I are getting along right now. She doesn't think it's a good idea for me to keep trying to kill myself." He held up his hand, displaying the barely yellowed nails.

"I didn't say a thing, Sir." She stayed standing, though. "Phlox has finished his autopsy. He wants us to meet him in Sickbay."

_Hopefully I won't get hypothermia on the way._ Trust Hess to be able to destroy whatever small headway he'd made, and without even trying. That was the damning thing. The girl didn't even have to try and she could send chaos whipping through the lives of everyone she touched. She was a curse, an albatross that hanged itself around his neck.

That thought brought back thoughts of Jamie, and he stumbled over his own feet. Torey didn't seem inclined to notice, which didn't make him feel any better. _Why do you do this to me?_ Things like this should only happen in bad American sitcoms. _It wasn't even like we were doing anything._ A couple of seconds either way… but no. Torey had to walk in _right_ while Hess had hold of his hand. And Hess' reaction hadn't helped any. A quick cover statement before she disappeared… it wasn't only not her style, but it sounded like they _had_ been up to something.

He thought of a million explanations on the way to sickbay, and discarded them all. They all simply sounded like excuses, and only made the innocence look like guilt.

As the sickbay doors opened, he had to suppress a groan. Phlox wasn't the only person waiting for them, and another reason for Torey's frostiness became apparent. "Sir."

"Malcolm." Archer didn't look well, and he didn't look happy. "What's going on here?"

"I wish I knew, Sir." Torey was right about one thing. They _had_ been too heavily indoctrinated in the ways of movie and novel mysteries, where the clues presented themselves in neat order, and things could be resolved in two hours, or a couple of hundred pages. "I'm not any happier with this than you are." He almost couldn't believe he said it. A couple of years ago, he _wouldn't_ have said it. A couple of years ago, Archer would have been captain, and that would have been that. But time and experience had changed both men. _And I'm not sure that all of those changes have been for the better._

"Hm. Yes, well." Phlox seemed to sense the tension, and cleared his throat. "I have completed my autopsy of Crewman Zhou, and it appears that she is part of the pattern that you are investigating. Her death was caused by severe bidirectional ventricular tachycardia, essentially the ventricular chambers of the heart were contracting too rapidly to allow blood to fully enter. This struck me as odd, because it's a very rare form of tachycardia, and I found elevated levels of digoxin in her system…"

"Digitalis," Malcolm closed his eyes, as the words sunk in. "Foxglove. Native to the British Isles, no less. My mother used to warn me not to eat it." It had grown wild in Aunt Sherry's garden. She'd enjoyed the fact that one of her favourite literary murder weapons could be so close at hand. As a child, he'd been curious, and it was always a worry of his mother's that he'd ingest something deadly. _The irony being that in my case it was usually common foods._

"I thought you might know of it, Lieutenant." Phlox sounded rather cheery at the thought. "He seems to have quite a large knowledge base for poisons," he clarified, for Archer. "I initially found this somewhat surprising, but given Lieutenant Reed's background I probably shouldn't have…"

"Poison is a common element of warfare." Malcolm explained, patiently. "And I've always been a military history buff. Do you know how it was administered?"

"I believe she ingested it," Phlox looked down at his notes. "In fact, if it weren't for the previous incidents, I would say that this was an accident, or suicide. But three people dying from organically available toxins makes it highly unlikely, does it not?"

"Everybody's a detective," Torey muttered. Malcolm hoped Archer didn't hear her, or would choose to ignore it.

"I'm sure you two realise how important it is that we deal with this problem. The crew is getting paranoid. This is out of control…"

Suddenly something Hess said came back. _Thank you, girl._ "Sir, this is a murder investigation. We need to proceed _very_ carefully. We cannot rush the evidence or the procedure, or a good lawyer…"

Archer began to glare.

"… a good lawyer could have our case dismissed. Now, I'm as upset as you are, Sir. I'm a member of this crew, too. I do not want to see this person getting away with it because _we_ got rushed and sloppy." He tried to ignore the queasiness in his stomach, as he thought again about his own actions. Even a not-so-good lawyer would have a field day with that, if they found out.

_Malcolm Reed, you are a weak-minded fool_. He knew the meaning behind the saying now. Confession _could_ be good for the soul – secrets were hard to bear alone. But there was no one to confess to, not without hurting too many others. _No one to take away my doubts, and restore my faith._ He had the name of kings and saints and none of the conviction that should go with it.

He glanced at Torey, and the stony look that inhabited her features. _She_ could kill someone, of that he had no question. She could probably even kill him. But she hadn't killed Zhou, and he was pretty damn sure she wasn't involved in the other two, either.

Archer closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I want this stopped, do you understand? I can not have members of my crew dying because of other people's incompetence."

_Ouch_. The old Archer would never have phrased anything like that. No, not all the changes had been for the better. _I'm glad Trip's not here to hear you say that._ The reason Archer and Trip had become such good friends was that neither had been inclined to hurt other people. To see his friend acting like the kind of bully they both despised would break what little was left of the engineer's damaged heart.

"Understood, Sir." His own voice sounded hard to his ears. The last time he'd used that tone had been with his father, just before he left. Archer's eyes flew open and he looked shocked, but he said nothing.

There was a tense moment of silence, then Archer seemed to realise where things had gotten. "Dismissed." He sounded tired and defeated again.

Malcolm and Torey left, still not speaking to each other. Even in their makeshift office, the tension held. Finally, he gave up and pushed himself away from the desk.

"Let me know if you find out anything. I'm obviously not that much help to you, and have things to do elsewhere." He didn't, really, but he couldn't handle it anymore. He wanted an escape, and he wanted a smoke. He grabbed a stack of padds and stood up, tucking them under his arm. "Comm me."

She didn't look up or acknowledge, and he felt no desire to remind her who was the ranking officer. He just wanted to get out. On the way, he grabbed a carton out of the crate. _I obviously can't impress you, so I might as well do _something_ for myself._ And it wasn't like the evidence meant anything any more. She still said nothing, and it served as further evidence of a growing rift.

He made his way quickly to his quarters, and had the cigarette lit before the door even closed. He tossed the padds on his bunk and found an old coffee mug among his things. It would do. He tapped the cigarette against the edge and watched the ash fall in. He then carried the mug back to his bed and shifted the padds over before lying down. At least here, he could concentrate. He set the mug on the floor and let his hand dangle over it, and began to read.

* * *

The doorbell sounded. "Come in." He didn't even bother to look up. _Incompetent? Why not just say lazy?_ After all, he was lying down on the job. He lit another cigarette then extinguished the consumed one in the mug, allowing the butt to join the others. Five at last count, but was he really counting?

The door slid open and Torey stepped in. "I tried comming you, but you didn't answer."

"Sorry. I must have been distracted." He didn't take his eyes off the padd. It was in here, somewhere: that elusive thing that would point them in the right direction.

"The thread is the same type and dye used in our uniforms," she began.

"How surprising. Of course, that could match _anybody's_. That's why they call them 'uniforms.'" He didn't need to be this snarky, but it had been a bad day all round. "My guess would be Crewman Jeremiah's."

"Her roommate? Do you know something I don't, Sir?" Now Torey sounded suspicious, and back on edge.

"If your roommate was dying, wouldn't you try to help them? Our killer hasn't been caught at the scene of a crime yet, and digitalis takes _time_ to have an effect. Phlox said she ingested it. I seriously doubt that our clever criminal waited around for her to realise what she'd eaten." The thought had occurred to him about an hour ago, but given the way she'd responded to his last suggestion, he'd decided to save it until one of them was in a better mood. Now that she was here, however, he figured it was as good a time as any.

"It's possible, Sir. I also didn't find anything else in the fingernail scrapings." She moved over to the foot of his bed and picked up one of the padds, saying nothing about the smoke that now dominated the small cabin.

_It's possible?_ "Did you just admit that I might be right?" He sat up, pulling himself towards the head of the bed to give her room to sit down, then picked up the mug and put it in his lap where he could easily reach it.

She didn't say anything, but this time she did sit down. The silence continued as they worked, but this time it didn't have the same tension it had in the cargo bay. Torey was more subdued now, radiating less rage. And he was calmer, the nicotine numbing his nerves, slowly deadening him.

Four hours, and ten cigarettes later, he heard her sigh and set down another padd. He was tired himself, but he wasn't going to give up. He was going to solve this damn thing if it killed him.

"It's not here." She took the padd away from him, and added it to her stack of discards.

"Patience, Ensign. This isn't the movies, we aren't going to solve this in a couple of hours." He took a deep drag, and blew the smoke towards the ceiling.

"You're pushing too hard. You're letting this consume you."

"Me?" He raised his eyebrows with the question. "I'm fine. You seem to be the one who's obsessed."

"Maybe." Her eyes never left his. "But that doesn't mean that I can't recognise it in someone else." She took the cigarette out of his hand and crushed it in the mug. "There's more smoke in here than in an Industrial Age city. You're tense, you're tired…"

He was, but he wasn't going to admit it. He'd been more tense, and more tired before. He'd lived through that, and he'd make it through this. What he didn't expect was for her to kiss him.

Part of him screamed that this was all wrong, and against the rules besides. Torey was his direct subordinate. People were dying. But that part couldn't scream loud enough to overwhelm all the other parts telling it to shut up. His hand moved automatically, pulling her closer as her lips parted to let his tongue slip between them. She took the mug out of his lap and put it on the floor, out of the way.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he managed a token protest, not precisely a 'no' but a warning.

"Probably not," she agreed, running a hand over his chest. "This is probably bad."

"Probably." Her hand slipped lower, and he forgot about that. Maybe sometimes it was just better not to think.

Afterwards, she lay with her head on his chest and he found himself staring at the pack of cigarettes he'd tucked over his head. _How romantic_. Even now all he could think about was the taste of them, rather than remembering the taste of her.

"Why?" She followed his gaze, then dropped hers back to his face. "When you know it's killing you… why would you do something like that?"

"Because it…" He sighed. "Because it makes me feel good. And it's something I can count on to do that."

She didn't look like she completely believed him. "There have got to be a _lot_ of things that make you feel good." She kissed the hollow between his shoulder and his neck. "And won't kill you."

"Hyperventilation, tachycardia, arrhythmia, hypertension…"

"Excuse me?" She looked up at him again, "What causes all that?"

"Sex." He smiled at her snort. "Seriously. People have died from it. But they keep doing it, because it _does_ make them feel good. And some people _do_ become addicted. It's the same with anything else. And then your body starts to rely on those chemicals, and reacts poorly when they're taken away. Give your body what it wants, and you feel good again. And drugs don't tell you 'no.'"

"That's it." She sounded like she expected more.

"Essentially. It becomes a habit, and a chemical addiction… but it comes down to feeling good. Feeling safe, like there's something to make everything okay. I hate what it does to me, but I hate not having it even worse." He sighed again. "I know it makes no sense. And scientists say that addiction is a disease, and that it's genetic…"

"But you have a choice. You don't _have_ to do it. Quitting won't kill you."

"Not yet, and not with this," he agreed. "But depending on how much the body relies on the replacement chemicals, withdrawal can prove more deadly than the poison." He stared off into space, absently playing with her hair. He'd never really talked about it, before. Not the actual whys of it, stripped bare of all the excuses.

"It just doesn't make sense."

"No, it doesn't. But in case you haven't noticed, human beings don't always make sense." What they'd just done didn't make sense, either. Not in an abstract, logical kind of way. It reminded him, a little, about stories he'd heard from wars gone past – of people surrounded by death, and looking for a way to feel alive.

_Very romantic, Malcolm_. At least Torey couldn't read his mind.

The comm rang, and they both stiffened, pulling apart. "Yes?" He tried to keep his voice level. It still sounded panicky.

"I think I've got something on your software." Trip's soft drawl crackled through the speaker. "You weren't down here, so I took a guess…"

"… on my way." He swallowed the first word, an unintentional 'we.' Torey was ahead of him, anyway, pulling her clothes on quickly.

He caught up with her by the turbolift. Part of him didn't want to leave her, and part of him didn't want to leave her alone with Trip. "Remember, Commander Tucker _is_ helping us."

"Your jacket's on crooked." She ignored his warning, and stared at the turbolift doors, as though willing it to hurry up.

"Your hair's a mess."

She ignored that, too, until they were safely inside the turbolift. Then all she did was run her fingers quickly through it, sorting it out. "Not that _he_ can say anything," she murmured.

"Actually, I think he can." As far as Malcolm knew, the only woman on board that Trip had ever been involved with was T'Pol. _The man has more definitions for 'off-limits' than I could imagine_. And he stuck by them too, with occasionally amusing results. The tale Hoshi told of Trip and Phlox's wife, Feisal, served as case in point.

Torey gave him the standard look that clearly said she couldn't believe that.

"It's true. I have never heard of one case of 'inappropriate behaviour' involving Commander Tucker and a subordinate. Except maybe Lieutenant Hess, but they are most definitely only friends."

"That's what you said about you and Lieutenant Hess." So she wasn't going to let go that easy.

"And that's true, too. I told you, she was getting on my case about the smoking. We're just friends."

They paused the argument as they hurried through the corridors. When they reached the cargo bay, Torey stopped dead. "Why don't we just have a fucking convention, here?"

"I'm outta here." Hess turned to leave, and the only thing that stopped her was Trip's hand gripping her collar.

"Look, you said _try_ to crack it myself." Trip looked at Malcolm, avoiding Torey altogether. "I couldn't, so I got some help. Hess is better with software than almost anyone I've ever met. Now we've got something…"

"Let's hear it." Malcolm crossed the floor to the desk, trying to ignore the crossfire of glares. Yes, God really did have a sick sense of humour.

Trip let go of his second-in-command, and she shrugged, straightening out her neck like a prize-fighter getting ready to go. "Well, it wasn't much really: just a couple of lines of sleeper code, not in the biobed itself, but in the mix-station for the intravenous. Rather than a saline solution, it put together a nice little dose of your _chondrodendron tomentosum_, which then made its way nicely into her veins. I asked Doctor Phlox, and _he_ admitted that he changed the IV when he made that last check on her."

Malcolm saw Torey's jaw tighten. _Neither one of us thought to ask about that_. "I checked that IV bag. It was a saline solution."

"Hey, well, you know… you keep such a secure crime-scene and all." Hess had that look in her eye, the one that said she was looking for, and finding the vulnerable spots to hit. _Sniper_. She also seemed to be keeping herself between Torey and Trip.

_Protecting him_. She always did, and he must have said something about the tension between him and Torey.

"The security cameras showed nothing." Torey stared back, refusing to be budged.

_Uh, oh._ Malcolm and Trip shared a look. This was showing all the signs of getting nasty.

"No, I suppose not. And everybody knows that the camera doesn't lie." Hess smiled, but there was none of her usual sparkle. "It's absolutely _impossible_ to alter a recording, especially when you've got the time, because people are running around like the Keystone Kops."

"Are you saying that I don't know what I'm doing?" Torey's voice dropped in volume, and developed an edge.

"I wouldn't be the first."

"Okay." It was Trip who stepped in, taking Hess by the shoulders and easing her backwards. "Let's just all calm down for a moment." He seemed as surprised by Hess' revelation as anyone else. He also seemed concerned about his friend's behaviour.

_Then again, so am I_. That level of nastiness just wasn't like Hess. _What the hell is going on here?_

"What's with you?" Trip's words echoed Malcolm's thoughts.

"Nothing." Hess crossed her arms, defensively. "I just don't think that we should be trusting our safety to someone who left the police force on stress leave, and never went back."

"That's not…"

"Right. It was a sabbatical. Right after you were involved with a case that got thrown out because the chain of custody on the evidence wasn't protected, and there were charges of evidence tampering."

"I'm sure you've heard of the word 'slander,'" the threat was heavy in Torey's voice. "_Experienced_ lawyer that you are."

Hess bristled even further at Torey's emphasis on experience. She sometimes made people forget how young she was for someone so highly educated. Her age was often a sore point with her; she'd confessed to Malcolm once that she'd often felt 'left out' by her peers because of it. "'Slander: noun. One: a defamatory speech expressed in transitory form, especially speech. Two: the act of making such a statement. Black's Law. But I never said a thing that isn't already public record."

"Things aren't always what they look like." Malcolm spoke up, silencing Hess. He turned to Torey. "What _did_ happen?" He knew there had to be something, because Hess would never say anything like that without being able to back it up.

"Another officer was accused of tampering with evidence in a drug-trafficking case. He later resigned, but no charges were laid. My father died at that time, and I took some time off."

"And never went back." Malcolm finished for her. "You joined Starfleet instead."

"Yes. But I wasn't a bad…"

"Okay," he tried to sound soothing, and shot another look at Trip. This was insane. He never thought he'd find himself in the engineer's shoes, trying to mollify a dangerously mad subordinate. _A couple of hours ago, I would have told her just to shut up_. And a few hours before that, he'd been sharing a laugh with Hess, not trying to think of ways to avoid an angry glare.

_What did _I_ do?_ Then it hit him. She could probably smell it, and she knew that Trip was bothered by his smoking as well. He had a feeling that his cult membership was in serious danger of being revoked. _I don't need this_. No, what he needed was another cigarette. Like he'd said to Torey, at least he could count on them. _There when I need them, and they don't get upset, and don't lie to me, either._ They didn't: that first puff told you everything you needed to know as it seared its way into your lungs. They let you know from the beginning that they were going to kill you. You didn't have to worry about them being sensitive, or protective.

As for her animosity towards Torey, that was easily explained as well, if you knew Hess. _Torey's_ animosity towards Trip would be enough, and if you connected the fact that Malcolm's smoking and Torey's move to the forefront came at relatively the same time, then it wouldn't be hard to see how Hess could shift to avenger mode. The trick would be getting her out of it.

_Without upsetting her further._ Because Trip could be just as sensitive and protective of Hess as Hess was of him. _Upset Hess, and your best friend might not stay that way._ And right now, Trip was the only person Malcolm thought he had a handle on. Everyone else had gone mad.

He did the only thing he could think of. He took charge. "Right. Now, Sir, I'd greatly appreciate it if you and Lieutenant Hess could look at the camera logs and see if you can tell if they have been tampered with, and if they have, if the original data can be recovered. We'll go back over what we've got, and see if we've missed anything else. Let's try to actually function as civilised people, okay?" He looked back and forth between Torey and Hess to make sure they understood. "Nobody's perfect here. We've all got our dark little secrets, but that doesn't mean that we can't do this." _After all, it's not like we really have a choice._ He watched as the engineers settled into the corner, Trip asking a question, and the normally chatterbox Hess shaking her head and pursing her lips shut. He got a sudden feeling that there was more going on here than he realised.

"Let's do ours, shall we?" He turned back to Torey, but her face was unreadable. She said nothing, but sat down stiffly at her side of the desk. He went to his, and sighed, then took out a cigarette and began to work.


End file.
